


happiness isn't happiness (without a violin-playing goat)

by storytellingape



Category: Girls (TV), Peter Rabbit (2018), Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Actors, Anal Sex, Eventual Romance, M/M, Past Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Romantic Comedy, Unresolved Romantic Tension, kylux adjacent
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-26
Updated: 2019-06-02
Packaged: 2020-03-19 20:27:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 30,208
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18977764
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/storytellingape/pseuds/storytellingape
Summary: Thomas runs a little toy shop in Crouch End with the aid of his intrepid shop assistant, struggling actor Adam Sackler. Then Adam catches a big break that catapults him into stardom. The rest is history.Notting Hill AU.





	1. 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Chifuyu](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chifuyu/gifts).



* * *

 

 

“Oh good, you’re actually early,” Thomas says, coming up round the bend to greet his shop assistant Adam. 

Adam looks as though he’s been waiting there for a good half hour, hunkered down on the sidewalk spilling cigarette ash all over his trousers. He’s rarely on time for work, with a variety of colorful excuses ranging from the mundane to the outrageously bizarre. 

He’s an actor, which Thomas thinks explains his general demeanor and lack of character: the man is a lout, but can assemble Scandinavian shelves like no one’s business, often without aid of a manual. Perhaps this redeeming quality is the only real reason Thomas hired him. No one else was asking about the help wanted ad he had posted at the shop window and he had a two week old crick in his neck from lugging and hauling boxes. It only made sense to hire Adam given his obvious… size and dexterity.

Now, well, Thomas lives to regret it some of the time. He elbows past Adam to unlock the door. There are three deadbolts so it takes him at least half a minute each all the while he ignores Adam’s impatient grunting and eye-rolling. 

Thomas carries his keys with him in a ring attached to his belt loop. 

They jingle when he walks; they’re on him at all times. He flicks the lights on and a cozy orange haze immediately fills the room. Thomas has to pause for a moment to soak it all up, ten years of hard work at Harrods and now this is the dream imagined: quaint little toys sitting in orderly rows, everything neat as a pin, so perfectly arranged and so lovely. The walls of the shop are cream-coloured, the tables large and reflective. The floor has been refinished and stained a walnut brown with white baseboard around its margins. On the ceiling is Henry Charles Beck’s map of the London underground. There’s a small library of books in a corner, padded chairs and a small custom table where children can read and lounge about. Often times this is where Adam reads _and_ lounges about, squeezed in a chair several sizes too small for him with his elbows and knees sticking awkwardly about.

It’s heaven.

“We’re expecting a shipment of those toys you ordered,” Adam says once they’ve settled down behind the counter, shedding their coats and hanging them up in the back room where Thomas has installed lockers for employees. So far there are only three, but as he’s hoping to expand there should be enough room back there for more. More lockers, better ventilation, maybe even a little office set-up with a desk and computer. At the moment there’s nothing but boxes left untended like sleeping animals.

Thomas starts arranging and rearranging the items on the counter. He checks the dial tone on the phone, flips the desk calendar to the appropriate date, and counts all the pens housed in an old Harrods mug sitting next to the register — six blue, five black, one red and one green. Sophie Ellis-Bextor, his incongruously-named potted plant, beams at him from her corner of the counter. Thomas gives her two spritzes of water in return before pinning his name tag onto his shirt: gold, gleaming, the finger smudges freshly rubbed off with a damp cloth just this morning.

Behind him, Adam steps out of the back room with the top part of his hair ponytailed. He’s wearing a red checked shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows and a pair of dark washed Levis. Time and time again Thomas has berated him about the dress code but they’ve reached a point where Thomas has decided to just let it slide. There are more pressing matters at hand, like the worrying lack of business and the fact that he is fast running out of copies of _Don’t Let the Pigeon Drive the Bus_ which is his only reliable source of income alongside the occasional sale of Bim Bim the vibrating squirrel. 

Prior to setting up shop in Crouch End, Thomas had signed up for a number of evening classes where he studied business management, economics, and general maths. He knows that sometimes it’s like this, running a business: that it can take years to turn a profit, and half the time failure is almost always guaranteed. Risk rewards those who are willing to stick it out till the very end. Thomas is one of those people, but eighteen months in and a mountain of paperwork later, he has yet to see the fruits of his labour.

“I’m headed out,” Adam announces, already halfway to the door. “Want me to grab you some coffee?”

It’s twenty minutes before they open shop.Thomas glances up from his log book where he’s penning today’s date in a neat script. “Oh, yes, yes please,” he says distractedly, “That would be lovely, thank you.”

“Your usual?” Adam asks, raising his eyebrows. 

Thomas nods. “And a scone, too, if the queue at the bakery isn’t too long.”

Adam grunts, muttering something Thomas doesn’t quite catch before he slips out the door, the bells chiming to announce his leave-taking. Thomas keeps himself busy meanwhile, dusting and hoovering and wiping whatever needs dusting and hoovering and wiping. When all is said and done, he flips the sign at the door from OPEN to CLOSED, and that’s the start of his day.

It’s a Monday which often means a spike in foot traffic. People don’t always come into the shop looking to buy something but Thomas makes sure they don’t go home empty-handed, either. He’s terrific at upselling; it’s one of the key skills he’s picked up at Harrods. You may not have wanted a paperback copy of _Paddington Goes To Town_ ,but you will damn well get one anyway if Thomas had any say about it.

The shop gets a lot oftourists and generally people seeking shelter from the sour London downpour, people who have battled faulty umbrellas and puddle splashes and mistake Thomas’ shop for another sort of establishment entirely. 

It’s all in the name — McGregor’s Toys — which Thomas had chosen on a whim when signing papers and has regretted ever since. At the very least, there’s comfort to be taken in the fact that it gets people through the door. Thomas has even set up a little nook for people waiting out the rain. He served them tea and biscuits straight from the tin and sat down with them to chat amiably about the weather and his very long and involved plan of taking down Harrods. It’s a five year plan, and anyone with enough free time on their hands are bound to get an earful. 

The tea used to be free until Adam had pointed out this was “a shitty business strategy” and Thomas cross-referenced his log book and noticed he was spending forty pounds a month on tea alone and had to begrudgingly admit that Adam was right. Now he charges 50 pence for the tea and an extra pound for the biscuit. People didn’t mind paying, he found out, as long as they had a comfortable chair to sit in that was warm and safe from the perils of London weather.

Twenty minutes later Adam comes thudding back in, swearing and muttering about queues but triumphantly gripping a cup of coffee in each hand. Clenched between his teeth is a paper bag stamped with the familiar logo of Thomas’ favourite bakery. Adam sets both coffees down on the counter before spitting out the paper bag and handing Thomas the receipt.

“The fact they charge you an arm and a leg for a fucking scone is a scam,” Adam grouses, and while Thomas agrees, he says nothing about it. It’s a scone, and a bloody good one at that. £2.20 is a small price to pay for what is conceivably the best scone in all of London. Thomas is used to everything being outrageously over-priced; he lived in Kensington for six years where he could barely afford rent. But life was good there for the most part: the people, the architecture, the quiet, the prestige. He loved living amongst all of it. He felt like he belonged. He felt like the epitome of an English gentleman, coming to work in a suit and tie, carrying an umbrella in one hand. 

They drink their coffee standing up, finishing breakfast with little conversation before settling into their daily routine. Adam is midway through putting together a set of seasonal shelves when the shipment of new toys comes in. He lifts his gaze from the weird assemblage of parts in his hands when Thomas pokes his head into the storage room to ask for help with the heavy-lifting. His shirt is missing, but this is a sight Thomas is all too familiar with: Adam with his chest shining in patches of sweat, straddling the work bench and surrounded by hills and hills of instruction manuals all printed in a number of different languages except English. In attempt to bring a dream to life, one sometimes had to cut costs.

“Yeah, I’ll just be a minute,” Adam promises, hammering several parts together, screwing the odd bit and piece here and there. Minutes later the weird assemblage of parts finally morphs together to form a respectable-looking shelf which he props upright and leans against the wall.

Thomas makes an appropriately impressed noise as Adam wipes sweat off his brow with the back of his hand. Some days Thomas wonders what he’ll do without him, when he can barely roll out of bed without that old yawning anxiety forcing him back under the covers.

There are ten boxes in total filled with Thomas the Tank Engine train sets which Adam ferries to the storage room while hardly batting an eye. They’ll all go on display tomorrow once the new shelves are ready. In the meantime, Thomas inspects each train set with a critical eye, noting the paint work and making sure all arefree of any manufacturing defects.

He emerges from the storage room blinking blearily, his back sore from sitting too long in an awkward position. At the counter, Adam is busy ringing up a purchase for a mother and daughter, forgetting once more to ask them to come again after he hands the mother back her credit card. They watch them exit the door with their purchases tucked under their arms.

“Anything I can do to help?” Thomas asks hopefully.

Adam shrugs without looking up from the register. “Your job is to stand there and look pretty especially at the peak hours.”

Thomas scoffs, affronted. It’s true he doesn’t need to do his share of the labour because as the owner, he can do pretty much whatever he wants. He has the luxury of spending all his free time sleeping in the storage room or making paper planes but he hates feeling useless and letting Adam run the store on his own. Working the till gives him something to do; it keeps his mind and his hands busy. True, he doesn’t have to do it but left to his own devices he’ll have started climbing up the walls like a crazed monkey. And it’s work. Good, honest, work, just like the one he used to have back at Harrods, which he promised himself he was no longer going to talk about. Well: his therapist doesn’t know, does he, so bugger that.

It isn’t so bad most of the time; Thomas has already started to settle. Which is to say he is slowly coming round to the idea that this is his new life now: running his own toy shop with tempered glass shelving and seasonal window decorations, with only an American shop assistant for company. It isn’t perfect, and certainly not what he worked ten years for at Harrods, but it’s good enough, and it’s something, and at the end of the day that’s all that matters.

At least that’s what he tells himself. Some days he even believes it.

*

Thomas would have fired Adam long ago were it not for the fact he actually shows up when summoned. Well, 80% of the time. 20% of the time he is off going on auditions and starring in plays Thomas has never even heard of. He used to be a struggling actor in New York; now he’s a struggling actor in London with minor parts in various television programmes on the BBC, mostly detective shows. He often said he looked vaguely like a hoodlum which casting directors were all too happy to point out. Adam played several vagrants in the last year with a speaking part in the second season of Broadchurch where his line “Urk!” as a drowning lifeguard had been cut out.

Thomas was hinging on the inevitability of Adam quitting his job at the toy shop to pursue his acting full time but he just kept coming to work: on holidays, in the middle of snowstorms, while battling a thirty-eight degree fever and a suspicious rash in his armpit. He just happened to always be there: fixing things, breaking things, fixing things he’d break, sometimes glowering menacingly at little children whenever they acted too rowdy or upset the mountain of toys Thomas had so painstakingly arranged in a pyramid by the shop window. He hated wearing a name tag and used most of his free time smoking in the alleyway separating McGregor’s toys from Auntie Aparna’s kebab shop. 

He smelled like a combination of meatloaf and curry, often times in the worst order. But he was reliable when one least expected it, like when Thomas had accidentally locked himself inside the shop and needed someone to break him out at two in the bloody morning. He would never forget needing so badly to use the loo and knowing the next day was a bank holiday. Absolute torture. Then Adam came rushing in wearing a period costume consisting of cream-coloured breeches and a feathered hat, and he picked the locks on the door and Thomas was able to relieve himself, finally, though regrettably in the alleyway that separated his fine established from Auntie Aparna’s.

“I don’t know how you fucking do it, but I can’t stand children,” Adam says, for the fifth and final time that day. It’s late in the afternoon, almost closing time, and that rare bit of London sunlight is shining in through the windows and highlighting specks of dust.

“What?” Thomas says, batting the air with a feather duster.

“They’re like, tiny fucking people. With tiny fucking hands — gyahh!” Adam shudders. “Just thinking about it gives me the creeps. Fictional children I’m okay with. Like that kid in The Christmas Carol. Tiny fucking Tim. But real kids. It’s amazing they’re able to evolve into adults and don’t just die mid-way.”

“Yes, well,” Thomas says, horrified, “They have their parents to thank for that.”

Adam huffs. “You ever think you could be a parent? A dad?”

Thomas grew up in a group home and has a skewed sense of family and loyalty; he is the least equipped person to be a dad. He likes children, but in the offhand way people like dunking their biscuits in their tea. It was something you didn’t really think about.

“Oh, I don’t know,” Thomas coughs, “I have a hard enough time taking care of myself. I don’t think I could take care of a little person.” He laughs.

“Yeah,” Adam agrees. “I could maybe see what you mean.” He starts chewing on his nails, and then smiles, flicking his gaze up and down Thomas’ person. Thomas returns the look skeptically with both eyebrows raised and Adam just laughs and disappears into the storage room where he finishes the rest of his shift.

*

Honestly, the whole thing shapes up to be quite dull. But day to day exposure to anything can result to a certain degree of detachment. As such, Thomas makes sure he finds time to unwind. While working at Harrods, he sometimes went out drinking with his colleagues, grabbing a pint or two to take the edge off and cap off a long sometimes 6-day work week. 

Now that he’s cut ties with most of them, blocking Bannerman from following him on Facebook, his weekends remain yawningly gapingly free. There’s Bea, dear sweet Bea, but she lives all the way out in the country and hardly ever leaves for the city unless there was good reason to. Thomas ought to come visit her, it’s been a while since they spoke to each other in person, but he still gets nightmares about his uncle’s garden and those vile little creatures Bea so fondly calls her friends. So: he goes out drinking alone, friendless and all the worse for it, which isn’t usually a problem, if he didn’t feel so lonely from time to time. Contrary to popular belief, Thomas is capable of emotions; he feels things, sometimes so deeply that he carries it with him from place to place. The feeling of not-quite-belonging borne from years of living in a group home has never quite left him; over the years he only became better at suppressing it. 

On one such night as Thomas is locking up and preparing to drown his sorrows, Adam surprises him altogether by asking him about his plans for the weekend. They’re not friends, in the strictest sense of the word, and though Adam’s official job title is shop assistant, Adam hardly ever treats Thomas as anything other than a coworker. Not even his boss, even if Thomas happens to be his employer. Americans, of course. Thomas isn’t surprised.

Now Adam is looking at him expectantly, waiting for an answer.

“I was planning on going out, grabbing a drink,” Thomas responds, a little flustered and taken off guard by the question. His keys rattle against his belt loop. “But I still haven’t decided yet. Maybe I’ll just stay in and feed the cat. Someone has to, after all.”

“You have a cat?”

“I’m sorry, I don’t know why I said that,” Thomas says quickly. “I don’t have a cat.”

“Right,” says Adam in disbelief, shifting from foot to foot with his hands stuffed inside his pockets. He looks deceptively young, with his hair avalanching his clean-shaven face. “You’re really fucking weird.”

“Thanks,” Thomas says. He gets that often: from customers, cabbies, even from Bea though she was less sweary than Adam and meant it as a sort of compliment. It’s one of the reasons they got along famously, the other reason being their failed careers.

“Not in a bad way,” Adam amends, “Just — you say these things and I wonder if you’re pulling my leg or not. Is it a British thing? I don’t know. I’m still getting used to people asking me if I’m all right when they mean hello.”

“Well, we are quite the odd sort, aren’t we,” Thomas agrees. “But then again so are Americans.”

Adam hums noncommittally which could mean any number of things: agreement, boredom, disassociation. Perhaps another one of those things Thomas can attribute to being American. 

It’s a short walk to Thomas’ flat, about fifteen minutes on foot. He unlatches the gate, walks up the three crumbling steps to his blue door, stops and turns, with his keys in hand. It rained this afternoon, driving away most of the shop’s foot traffic. The sidewalk is glistening with the faint remnants of it, shimmering like a silk brocade.

Thomas grips his keys till his knuckles are white-tipped. “Would you like to come up for tea? I’d even let you pet my imaginary cat.”

Adam stares at him, then lets the silence descend. Crickets chirp, a car rumbles past. Whole civilizations fall and then Adam looks at him and laughs, throwing back his head. “That sounds oddly sexual when you say it.”

“I was trying to make a joke!”

“No, no, I know,” Adam continues to laugh, wheezing now and clutching his knee. His laughter drags on longer than is necessary. Thomas frowns, beginning to cross his arms. “It’s cute. I mean, if you had a cat I’d pet the shit out of it. Pet it real good, nice and slow till it purred all sweet for me.”

“Are we still talking about my imaginary cat?”

“I don’t know,” Adam says. “Are we?”

“Are we?” Thomas repeats, confused.

“It’s a good thing the damn cat’s imaginary,” Adam tells him, coming up the steps to crowd him against the blue door. “I’m allergic to cats. I’m not trying to be mean. I mean, full on sneezing and hives. My eyes get all red, my nose gets all runny. It gets really, really bad.”

“Oh,” Thomas says, oddly pleased they have this in common. “Me too.”

*

“Cool place,” Adam says, looking around furtively before taking off his jacket and sliding onto a stool. He’s not the first person to ever come over, but he’s certainly the first one in a long time since Thomas had all the windows replaced along with the backsplash in the kitchen. 

Thomas bought the flat with some of his inheritance money: one bedroom, one bath, with a crumbling garden in the back that was home to a dirty boot and a long-neglected bicycle. He replaced all the furniture, repainted the walls, and in no time at all made the place his home. In his bedroom are a chest of drawers, a bookshelf, a standing lamp that was sound operated, and against the far wall a noise machine that replicated the sound of the ocean. He loved his flat, most days, even more so than his old one in Kensington. He loved the fact that it had two floors, and had room enough for both a washing machine and a wraparound sofa. Not to mention he had windows with actual views and neighbours who were more likely to stay for tea and come round for a chat than regard you suspiciously and shuffle the other direction.

Thomas digs through the crisper drawer for food but there’s nothing there but month-old carrots and a few lumpy aubergines, which at thirty-four years old, coming up to thirty-five, is a frankly depressing sight. He goes to make Adam tea, rifling through his tea drawer bursting with an assortment of the stuff: tea for every occasion, whether to cure a cough, induce sleep, or put you to rights. There’s enough tea to feed an army. Perhaps Thomas had gone overboard but he likes to be prepared. 

“What kind do you want?”

“What, what do you mean what kind? There are flavours?” Again, Adam crowds Thomas against the kitchen counter. Thomas used to get all up in arms about the crowding — often getting a whiff of Adam’s hair when he least expected it — but eventually he realised Adam wasn’t doing it consciously; it was his size — larger than life, almost offensively so; he couldn’t help being in people’s personal space all the time.

Adam hums and runs his fingers along the bright packaging. “There’s one called Sleepytime?”

“It’s one of my favourites,” Thomas confesses, “Helps me calm down, I think. Helps with the rage problem too.”

“You have a rage problem?”

“I used to,” Thomas shrugs, rubbing his elbow, feeling suddenly embarrassed. He knows he tends to overshare about the most mundane details of his life — the latest episode of _Midsomer Murders,_ his chronic ear infection —butnot about this, never. It took eight months before he came to grips with it, that he’s a mess of feelings inside, only slightly deranged.

Adam nods, juggling a box of loose-leaf tea from one palm to another. He has massive hands. It’s not the first time Thomas has noticed them. 

“Hmm…” Adam says thoughtfully. “I used to have the same problem. You know what my therapist advised me to do? Yoga. Worked really well for me.”

Thomas tries hard not to imagine Adam doing yoga. He fails, and makes a whimpering noise that he tries to cover up by banging the drawer shut, only narrowly missing Adam’s fingers. 

Adam hops a foot away, yowling. 

“Let’s have some earl grey, shall we?” Thomas offers.

“Sure,” Adam says, his mouth quirking up into something resembling a smile. His eyes settle on Thomas but he says nothing and just stands there, and it’s this particular trait that Thomas remembers from their first-time meeting: Adam banging his way without compunction into the shop on a drizzly Tuesday morning, clutching the help wanted ad Thomas had hung outside weeks before. “You still hiring?” he said, looking Thomas up and down, the same stare as now, like he was sizing Thomas up. Thomas was about to reach for the telephone — he was honestly so intimidated, cracking his fingers to call the police — when Adam broke the tension by shivering and sneezing right into his face. 

After the tea has steeped, Thomas makes it a point to migrate to the living room. He’s proud of his accomplishments, and not ashamed to brag about them, even just a little. The flat is old, and there used to be bits of it rotting everywhere, mice in the ceiling, ants in the closet, bird skeletons in the eaves. But now everything gleams and sparkles brand new, and when Thomas leads Adam to the sofa, he can’t help but notice the admiring gleam in Adam’s eyes as he hunkers down on the cushions which are softer than sin, actual satin.

Thomas turns on the telly, putting Top Gear on the lowest possible volume so that it becomes white noise. 

“Thanks for the tea,” Adam says, sipping from his mug, his enormous fingers barely fitting around the porcelain. He looks cozy on the sofa at least, his arms spread along the width of the backrest, his legs splayed wide open.

“I have some liquor, if you’re more amenable to that.”

“Not really. I’m a recovering alcoholic. Three years sober.” He holds up his hand and shows Thomas his AA ring which, after over a year of working for Thomas, has never been a topic of conversation.

“Oh,” Thomas says, lurching out of his seat and almost stubbing his toe on the coffee table in the process. “Shit. I’m so sorry—”

Adam waves a hand dismissively, getting up from the sofa to run his hand along the mantel. Thomas doesn’t have any personal photos hanging up: not of family because he doesn’t have any, not even of acquaintances because he’s quick to burn bridges and holds grudges worse than a sixteenth century witch. Though he still has a few of Bea’s paintings in his bedroom that he has yet to frame and use as a conversation starter should he be the type to throw dinner parties and invite all his neighboursover for brunch. _Is it a hat? A hill? Oh, no it’s a man taking his dog out for a walk on the Rue de Rivoli!_

“You should see my place,” Adam laughs, rapping his knuckles against the wall as if to check its build. “It’s a fucking sty compared to this. I haven’t even unpacked all my shit yet and I’ve been living here more than a year.”

“I could help you,” Thomas says, “I’m good at unpacking,” and he probably means it at this time but a week later, when he’s expected to make good on his promise, he is less certain. 

Adam lives in a studio flat in Stepney Green which is a long enough commute from Crouch End to make Thomas nervous. 

Adam hadn’t been joking when he said his place was a sty. 

Thomas finds the following in his flat:

  * a basketball
  * a hockey puck
  * coffee rings on every available surface
  * six boxes of Weet-bix, unopened
  * the complete works of Italo Calvino in paper back
  * a dream catcher made from colourful yarn and glass beads and,
  * a suspiciously crusty hole-ridden sock



There’s mounds and mounds of laundry too. Somewhere underneath all this is an air mattress covered in filthy bed sheets. 

“My word,” Thomas finally says and can’t help the swearing that slips out. He’s expecting Adam to say something redeeming but instead he just plants his hands on his hips and surveys the mess along with Thomas, rubbing his chin and kicking at a soda can on the floor.

“Do you have anywhere to sit?” Thomas asks, anxiously glancing around. A box labeled _GLASSWARE_ has been repurposed as a coffee table. None of the chairs in the tiny kitchenette match. Thomas sets his supplies down on the kitchen counter which is covered in boxes of takeaway and back issues of _Radio Times_. Several of the contents spill over the dust-eaten rug. 

Thomas feels faint when he catches sight of a cockroach scuttling into a hole in the wall just within his peripheral vision.

“You know, this actually explains a lot of things,” Thomas says.

Adam makes a face. “What the fuck does that mean.”

“It means,” Thomas sighs, “That you’re in dire need of professional help. You’re lucky I’m here. You poor, poor child.”

“Sure,” Adam says, though he sounds like he doesn’t believe it. “Whatever you say.”

Thomas straps on his trusty rubber gloves and tugs a pair of protective goggles over his eyes. “Safety first. This might get a little dirty,” he warns, in a deeper voice.

“Oh I’m counting on it,” Adam laughs, flicking at the goggles with two fingers. 

“You need help with those?” He doesn’t want for an answer, simply adjusts the goggles over Thomas’ face without warning and smooths Thomas’ hair out of the way with a few quick brushes of the hand.

“You all right?” Adam asks,peering at him and blinking. “You look like an alien. Or a less sexy version of my wet dreams.”

Thomas tries to ignore that last comment as it’s more trouble than it’s worth. He swipes at his hair one more time to get it out of the way for good, gives it a few blows, and then gets to work.

*

To repay him for scrubbing, vacuuming, and dusting every square inch of his flat, Adam makes him dinner. Or at least he attempts to, cobbling together whatever ingredients he can scrounge up from the depths of his fridge into a heady stew whose smell permeates the rest of the flat. Thomas puts away all his cleaning supplies, folding his rubber gloves together and tucking his protective goggles back into his canvas bag. Adam doesn’t look up from the pot he’s stirring, sips at the spoon and manages to burn his tongue, hissing and swearing and hopping around in a circle. 

Thomas sighs and shoves him aside, gesturing for him to hand him the spoon. He nearly gags at the taste that hits his tongue: far too spicy for his English sensibilities which lean more toward bland and featureless. He shakes his head. “There’s no salvaging this stew unless you’re hiding a potato somewhere.”

“Where the fuck would I be hiding a p — you know what? Whatever. Let’s just head out. Come on.”

So they head out. Adam takes him to a Thai restaurant: a little hole in the wall that’s a hop skip jump from the tube station. The place is crowded, cramped, noisy, the air thick with grease and humid with the smell of fish sauce. Adam quickly locates a table as soon as the previous occupants abandon it, squeezing Thomas against the far corner with a direct view of the open-kitchen. Thomas has to shed his jacket so he doesn’t start sweating. He flips the laminate menu front to back and back to front; he’s never had Thai food before.

“I’ve never had Thai food before,” he announces.

Adam flicks a skeptical glance at him. “Really?”

“Really.”

Adam coughs out a laugh, smirking. “Then you’re in for a treat. Any food allergies I should know about?”

“Just the one,” Thomas says, worriedly. “Blueberries.”

Adam makes a thoughtful noise, never looking up from the menu. “I doubt they use blueberries in their green curry,” he says, sounding like he’s trying his best to assure Thomas, “Or their chicken satay,” he adds, “but I’ll let them know just in case. Can’t be too sure these days.” He stretches back in his seat; there’s hardly any room for him because he’s got an obscenely large body: big hands, big feet, big temper. Big everything. But then he curls up into himself and slouches again, chewing on the inside of his lip, a titan back on earth. “Ready to order?” he asks 

“Yes, please,” Thomas says.

Their food arrives posthaste. Adam orders a little bit of everything and their table is quickly filled with plates and bowls of the house’s best: noodles, rice, beef, vegetables in all manner of permutations and combinations. Everything smells good; everything makes Thomas’ mouth water. Adam has him try the pad thai, the green curry, the papaya soup and vegetable spring rolls. His fingers come away shining with grease, the roof of his mouth and his tongue pleasantly burnt.

They talk: about Thomas’ plans for expansion should the money roll in (he’s thinking about getting a second floor), about Adam’s off West End play called _Blink_ where two people fall in love via baby monitor _,_ his first romantic comedy. They talk over each other, interruptions ebbing and flowing like a restless tide: nobody lets anybody get a word in edgewise. Despite it, Thomas ha s a surprisingly nice time. He realises this only after Adam pays for dinner and walks him back to the station, their shoulders brushing silently as the night air whips a breeze through their hair. He hasn’t laughed this much in a long time. His ears feel like they’re ringing, his jaw tight like he’s been chewing gum all night and he may as well have been. Adam isn’t the particularly jokey type, his sense of humour can be mean at best, and he’s grumpy and intense and unforgiving at his worst, prone to breaking things with his hands even when he doesn’t mean it. But he was nice to Thomas all throughout dinner, making jokes, making fun of himself, and when Thomas had pointed out he wasn’t usually this funny he said something about being off medication, whatever that meant. 

“Thanks for sprucing up my place,” Adam says, scratching at his forehead and swiping his fingers through his hair. “I haven’t seen my floor in ten months.”

“It was therapeutic,” Thomas blurts out. “I’d do it again in a heartbeat! Sorry, but er, I really love tidying up. Is that weird?”

“No,” Adam laughs. “Everyone has their compulsions right?”

“Right,” Thomas agrees, though he doesn’t quite believe it himself. Compulsions: he has a list of them, longer even than his arm. He tries his best to suppress them: through meditation, through exercise, through sheer force of will. It works half the time. The other half, he has no other choice but to let it take over. The anger, the sadness, the urge to organise and re-organise every shelf in the shop just to feel a semblance of control. He likes being in control; that’s why it unmoored him to have lost a job to Nigel fucking Bannerman who had the competence of a bent spoon. In a perfect world, effort and hard work were rewarded handsomely. But not in this world, not at Harrods who played by its own set of rules. 

Adam stuffs his hands inside his pockets, kicking a streak of dirt on the ground with the point of his shoe. He’s a big man, several weight classes above Thomas, but sometimes he can act like a bashful child with his head down. 

“Well, I guess I’ll see you Wednesday,” he says, because he asked to have the next two days off in preparation for his play and a couple of other auditions. 

Thomas nods back at him. “Good night. Thank you for dinner. It was lovely.”

“Thank you for being great company,” Adam tells him, and it’s such an offhand comment, said without a second thought, but it stays with Thomas for the rest of the evening, sitting inside him like a comfortable weight. He thinks about it on the commute home, while he’s making tea before bedtime, and while he’s brushing his teeth in front of the bathroom mirror and inspecting a particularly ghastly pimple on the tip of his nose; even as he’s pulling on his pyjamas before bed and before he shuts his eyes to sleep, to sink into dream: this is probably what it feels like to have a friend.

In an effort to raise sales, Thomas has Adam stand outside the shop stuffed into a Silly Sausage costume while handing out fliers. The first three days this manages to increase foot traffic by 15%, but the rest of the week ends in bitter disappointment: the costume does more harm than good in the end, terrifying children and giving their parents the impression that Thomas is running a shop of the adult variety. He’s already turned away half a dozen people, all of whom have asked about something called _the magic bullet 2.0._ Helpfully or unhelpfully, Adam redirects them to the appropriate shop down the street that’s next to the 24-hour laundromat with the flickering neon outline of a woman lifting and lowering her leg. How Adam knows what a magic bullet is and what it does remain a mystery and at this point Thomas is loathe to ask and reveal himself a simpleton. 

Then there are those annoying teenagers who think it’s hilarious to bump and shove and push Adam. Normally, out of the costume, Adam could scare them off with his sheer bulk alone but the costume has a way of dampening his natural menace and turning his sneer into something not to be taken all that seriously. That doesn’t stop Adam from chasing them down the street, however, or vowing holy vengeance upon them until the end of days.

Outside, business is winding down for the night as shops across the street turn over their signs from OPEN to CLOSED; chairs and tables are being tucked away from the sidewalks, the last of stragglers all hurrying past the toy shop to catch the last ride home. Thomas is already wiping shelves while mopping the floor at the same time. The actions come easily to him, because he’s terrific at multi-tasking. He pauses when the bell at the door chimes in greeting and in stumbles Adam with his head sticking out of the Silly Sausage costume. His face is blotchy and flushed. He must have stood outside in that costume for hours, under the drizzle and under the sun. Without warning, he starts tugging at the zipper on the side of the costume, there in the middle of the toy shop fifteen minutes before closing.

Thomas drops the mop, gaping. It’s like watching a car wreck; he can’t seem to tear his gaze away. Adam pokes his head through the side of the costume, wiggling his left arm free followed by the right. Then his torso comes next and it’s probably not meant to be a surrealist nightmare but there it is, nightmare fuel for a good month or so. Adam manages to free a leg, a very naked leg covered in a coarse layer of hair. 

“You were naked the whole time?” Thomas screeches. 

Adam holds up his hands in an appeasing gesture. “Relax, mom, geez, I’m wearing underwear underneath this thing.”

“Yes, but,” Thomas feels faint again, which is the usual reaction when around Adam. He doesn’t know what to make of it; if it’s a good thing or a bad thing. Certainly it isn’t good for his heart. “You were supposed to wear leotards!”

“I’ll have the costume dry-cleaned, Jesus.” Adam rolls his eyes, frees his other leg so he’s shed the entire costume entirely. It lays crumpled in a heap on the floor, like second skin. He glances up at Thomas and meets Thomas’ disbelieving gaze with his own. “I don’t do leotards, my nuts need fucking air. You try standing outside in this fucking costume, see what that’s like. Getting pushed around by pimple-faced brats, getting laughed at.” His voice squeaks a little, rising in octave, which Thomas notices tends to happen when Adam is on a roll, “Which okay, I should be used to by now because people are jerks but Jesus it was hotter than Satan’s armpit in there. I don’t know why I do half the things you tell me to! They’re not fun! They’re the opposite of fun! They’re hell!”

“I thought it would be a good idea,” Thomas says, in a small voice, chastised. It was also a way to promote the latest toy in their lineup, the _Silly_ Sausage whose mechanics involved a lot of shaking and twisting and squeezing a plastic sausage. Adam was largely unimpressed by it but then again he was largely unimpressed by a lot of things so Thomas didn’t pay it any mind. Now he realises his mistake: that perhaps he was remiss in investing a large sum of money in a silly offensively phallic toy. Freud would beg to differ. 

Adam sighs, picks up the costume, and starts wrangling it into submission to fold it in sections. He’s only half successful, balling it up in a big wad when he all but gives up halfway in the attempt and just tucks it under one arm. Then he makes his way to the storage room, his socked feet padding noiselessly against the walnut flooring. Thomas takes note of the fact that Adam is the type to wear briefs, which were probably once white but now have faded into a dull dirty grey from far too many trips to the wash. Thomas wants to look away — he’s not a pervert — but he can’t. 

Something about the bulk of him, the sheer size of his person draws Thomas’ gaze to the strong lines of his body, like a true magnetic north. Actually, the truth is Thomas likes big men. Big men big enough to pin him down with their weight, like a heated blanket on the coldest of days. He doesn’t necessarily like Adam in that regard but stranger things have happened and he’s _just_ a man. He can tell when someone is objectively attractive. And Adam, with the wonky nose and glaring eyes, and the propensity to yell instead of whisper quietly, is definitely on the attractive scale. 

True, Thomas hasn’t seen action since 2013 when Pope Benedict XVI announced his resignation but that doesn’t mean he’s gagging to be tied up to the bed and shagged seven ways to Sunday. The last person he dated for all of three weeks complained that he was simply too intense for them and they haven’t even progressed to holding hands. “You need to lighten up on the Harrods thing, mate,” they’d said, then wished him good luck for the future. 

Because he’s a respectable gentleman first and foremost, Thomas leaves Adam to his own devices, catching sight of his saggy briefs in his peripheral vision one final time when he tidies up the counter. Thomas himself prefers silk boxer shorts in emerald green: comfortable, classy, the hallmark of modernity. He has forty pairs of them all folded neatly in his underwear drawer next to the rolls of emerald green neckties he knows he’ll never wear again. 

“I have rehearsals in an hour,” Adam says, slapping a hand over his shoulder on his wayout the door. “Do you need help with anything?” He glances around the shop, looking like he wants Thomas to say no.

Thomas has been cleaning since this morning so he’s in luck, and he’s now free from the clutches of servitude. 

“I’ll see you in the morning,” Thomas says. 

When Adam doesn’t leave, lingering expectantly at the door, Thomas raises an eyebrow.

“You could come by and watch,” Adam offers with a sheepish lift of his shoulder, “I mean, if you like. It’s, whatever. No pressure. It gets boring sometimes. And the play opens in two weeks and — you know what. Never mind. It’s fine. I’ll see you tomorrow.” He pauses, shouldering his bag and then running a hand through his hair: messy, damp with sweat, longer now than when they first met, reaching past his eyes and ears. “I promise to get the costume dry-cleaned, so. Don’t worry about it. Okay? I’m sorry I yelled at you.”

“I’m sorry I made you wear that costume,” Thomas concedes. A beat passes, then another. And another. And another. And another —

Adam nods, once, then slips out the door in a chime of bells. Gone.

*

Business is slow. It’s almost always slow in the spring. Their peak months are Christmas and summertime, which makes sense as those are typically when schools all over the country release students to wreak havoc on the unsuspecting populace. That being said, often times there’s not much to do at the shop. There’s only so many shelves Thomas can clean, only so many surfaces he can wipe down with Surf and a damp cloth, and sometimes even the best of men succumb to boredom. 

That’s how they come up with the game. Adam, of course, invents it. But the better way to phrase is this way: he brings it up one day to get Thomas to stop opening and closing the cash register, counting and recounting 1-pound notes. His therapist made him do it, he said, so he didn’t lose sight of his goals. It was just a way to past the time, a fun little activity to keep themselves from driving each other up the wall. So Thomas and Adam did it too: they made lists. Top five lists. Of anything they can think of. Top five dessert island songs, and the like. Top five best sandwich fillings (Thomas came up with that), top five list of things they hated about London (Thomas can only come up with three, the fourth being Harrods purely out of spite); and then the inverse of that: top five list of things they love about London (Harrods, also sadly being in the top four). 

Eventually it progressed to top five songs to listen to when you masturbate (of which Adam was the sole author) and top five New Year’s resolutions you never got around to doing which Thomas is reluctant to admit is his least favourite for various reasons. It’s been 12 years after all and he still hasn’t gotten round to getting promoted to associate general manager. That definitely goes on the top 3.

But of all the things that Thomas loves about London, nothing else can put a skip in his step quite like the Farmer’s Market on Alexandra Palace. Two nights before Bea is due to visit, Thomas delays opening shop to take a detour to there, enlisting the help of his intrepid shop assistant who is less than pleased to be going on an excursion during what is supposed to be his shift. But he comes along anyway, having nothing better to do, and because he’s never been, and also because Thomas is his boss first and foremost: he has no other choice in the matter and to that Thomas says ha, bloody ha! Adam is like any usual American tourist: frequenting haunts populated by other tourists so they could commiserate together and complain about the English. He rolls his eyes each time Thomas points, oohs, and _aahs_. 

“Oh, do stop pouting Adam!” Thomas says, fondly staring up at the sky promising a warm, sunny day. “It’s not all bad! Smell the air! Don’t you just love that? There’s a whiff of— of—”

“Thomas, I used to live in Brooklyn. You know how many farmer’s market’s I’ve been to? Two of my exes were hipsters. Imagine that. I smelled like patchouli every fucking day.”

Thomas shrugs, mood refusing to be dampened. It’s midway into the week so there is less of a crowd. Some of the usual stands are missing, namely Thomas’ favourite pressed juice stand, and the one that sold minced pies. He buys iced coffee from a stand called The Good Bean where they grind the beans in front of you and give you a free cookie if you promised to take a picture of the stand to post on social media. 

“Do you think I should set up a stall and sell toys?” Thomas asks, sipping on his iced coffee which has more syrup than he actually likes. 

“Thomas,” Adam says, sounding all too bemused for his own good with a mouthful of chewy coffee-flavoured cookie. “It’s a Farmer’s Market. No one around here is selling toys.”

“I could be the first,” Thomas says, raising his eyebrows hopefully. He takes another pointed sip of his coffee while Adam shakes his head and laughs. Not meanly. Just amused, joyous laughter. Thomas has the distinct feeling he should be embarrassed but then Adam just looks over at him fondly and bumps their shoulders together. Then he just stays there, letting their shoulders press for more than five seconds before pulling away. 

“Look,” Adam says firmly, walking backwards in front of Thomas. “Didn’t they teach business strategy in night school or something? Your target demographic is wailing children and stuffy obnoxious parents. Do any of the people here fit that description? Well?”

Thomas has a hasty look around. There’s a mum pushing her baby around in a pram, a young tattooed-and-pierced couple fighting by a stand that sold raw artisan honey, on the verge of a breakup. A handful of teenagers all about university age are laughing and taking videos with expensive-looking equipment, much to the annoyance of onlookers and nearby vendors. Thomas takes another audible sip of his coffee. Adam is right.

“It’s just,” Thomas sighs. He sifts his fingers through his hair, a mirror of how Adam does it sometimes. “I’m not very good at this, am I? This whole running a business malarkey. I thrived when I was in a corporate setting because at least then I knew what I was doing. There were clear instructions, orders given by the higher ups. Now _I’m_ the higher up and have to make every bloody decision from what colour the shop walls should be to what I should bloody name it. It’s — it’s all very stressful.”

“Oh, no doubt, no doubt,” Adam agrees, watching him carefully now, sobering up. “But: does anyone know what the fuck they’re doing anyway? I mean, look at me. I came here to try my hand at acting. Am I any more successful here than I was in New York? Maybe, but it’s all a matter of perspective. I still struggle to pay the bills; I still eat top fucking ramen. You’ve seen my apartment. What a shithole it is. But I’m happy, I mean, I can’t complain. I’m not,” he puts on a terrible accent. “ _I’m not bovvered.”_

Thomas laughs. He’s not sure what he’s supposed to glean from Adam’s statement but he feels lighter now, of feeling and foot. They do a short circuit around the market, checking off every item in Thomas’ shopping list. Thomas makes sure he gets all of Bea’s favourites as he’s making her dinner when she comes over in two days. He met her when he was appraising his uncle’s property, a sweet sweet woman with an even lovelier smile. He could have loved her, he thought then. And perhaps life would have been different. He would have moved to Windermere, absolved all his plans of taking down Harrods, settled down and started a family, never looked back. But all this was wishful thinking on his part. It was clear even early on that he and Bea were never going to be anything other than friends. She reminded him too much of what he did remember of his mother, and there was also the fact Thomas had a predilection for men. Big men. Sweaty men. Men with dark eyes and even darker hair. 

Before Thomas can slip into this depressive spiral, a familiar voice calls out to him from across the way. Thomas lists his head and feels a sudden draining of energy when he locates the source of the voice. His heart stops beating immediately; his temples start beading with anxious sweat. One second, two seconds, and then three, and then Nigel Bannerman is jogging briskly towards him with the goofiest grin on his face, wearing an awful red tracksuit and white Adidas trainers. He’s lost a bit of hair, but looks no less happy about it.

“Thomas McG!” he remarks gleefully. “Who would have thought I’d run into you here, eh.” He claps Thomas on the shoulders. “I haven’t seen you in ages since you went ballistic at work. How’s the country been treating you?” His eyes trail over to Adam, standing next to Thomas carrying a net bag bulging with fresh produce, loaves of French bread and half a dozen fragrant cheeses. “You look familiar mate, do I know you from somewhere? Where have I seen you?”

“Standing behind David Tennant in Broadchurch, probably.” 

Bannerman’s eyes sparkle as he points to Adam. “Is he your boyfriend, Thomas? Fancy man. He knows David Tennant!”

“He’s not my boyfriend,” Thomas says, at the same time Adam grunts and says, “Who is this clown?”

“We worked together. At Harrods,” Thomas explains. Worked together is an understatement: all Bannerman did for a long time was hog all the snacks in the break room and disappear periodically to nap. He was the managing director’s nephew so no one said a word about it. Thomas kept trying to report him to HR for a number of conduct violations but no one was having it. People would rather keep a blind eye to retain status quo than upset the waters. Now: well. Here they are. Thomas shopping for produce at a farmer’s market, and Nigel Bannerman wearing a hideous tracksuit. 

“Good times, Harrods,” Bannerman beams stupidly. He elbows Adam in the ribs, whispering conspiratorially.“I got the promotion, he didn’t, and he went a little mental and got the boot.”

Thomas cringes inwardly. Will anyone ever let him live it down? Apparently not. Not this imbecile. “Well, it was nice seeing you, Thomas.” _No, it wasn’t._ “I’ll tell everybody you said hi.” _Oh god._ “I’ll see you two lovebirds around, yeah?” 

_Wait — what?_

Another clap on the shoulder and then he’s off, jogging the opposite direction. Thomas grits his teeth, counts to ten, opens his eyes and exhales, whistling through his clenched teeth.

Almost as quickly as he’d gotten riled up, now he’s exhausted and at a loss. Getting worked up over Bannerman is stupid, that much is clear. The whole thing feels kind of surreal. He feels like he had dreamt the entire exchange.

“You okay?” Adam asks worriedly, nudging him on the shoulder. He rubs the spot consolingly, stroking his thumb back and forth. “You look kind of shaken.”

Thomas forcefully blinks himself back into the present. He’s had therapy; he’s got this under control. One, two, three. “Right,” he coughs, smoothing the front of his jumper and biting his lip. “I just wasn’t expecting to see him, that’s all.”

“Was he your ex or something?”

Thomas gives Adam a dirty look. “Do you _honestly_ think I’d stoop _so_ low as to date someone like him? Nigel bloody Bannerman? Did you see what he was wearing?”

Adam shrugs. “Sometimes the heart wants what the heart wants. I’m not judging.” He smiles tentatively but Thomas refuses to return it. That particular exchange colours the rest of the day. Thomas closes shop early, sending Adam home at 2 in the afternoon, so he can wallow in a pool of his own abject misery while listening to Tchaikovsky’s Greatest Hits on Youtube. He runs a bath, scrubbing himself down with mango body butter, drinking wine straight from the bottle as he prepares the lamb, squash and orzo stew he’ll be serving Bea in two days’ time. He’s three sheets to the wind when he gets a call on his cell phone. Thomas lets it ring a few times, certain he’s only hearing things and dreaming. On the fifth ring, he convinces himself to scoop up his phone with clumsy fingers to finally answer it. It’s Adam, calling with exciting news at — Thomas squints at the clock. _Half past six._

“Hey,” Adam says, voice all breathy and nervous-sounding. “Remember that gig I was telling you about? The big secret project? I got the part. Fuck! I’m shaking. I just got a call from the director and they’re flying me to LA on Monday to finalize some details.”

“What?” Thomas says. “Oh,” he breathes. “ _Oh!_ That’s great! Congratulations on your big break! We should celebrate!”

“Are you drunk?”

Thomas doesn’t like the disappointed dip in Adam’s tone. “No,” he lies. “Are you?”

“Why would I be drunk? I’m trying to get clean.”

“Are you?” Thomas says.

“Am I what?”

“Drunk.”

“No?” Adam says slowly. “Thomas, are you all right?”

“What do you mean? Of course I’m all right! Oh cripes, I think my stew is burning, bye!” Thomas loses track of time after that, grabbing a dish towel to combat the flames eating up his stove. He manages to get everything under control in less than five minutes though what he ends up with in return is the charred remains of what would have been the heartiest of stews. He dumps everything under running water before padding barefoot into the living room with his legs freshly moisturized and newly shorn. He sleeps for half an hour, drooling all over the sofa cushions. He’s calmly watching the Colin Firth 1995 version of _Pride and Prejudice_ while munching on saltine crackers when the doorbell rings. 

When he gets up to answer it, he’s not all that surprised to see it’s Adam. No one else knows his address and at the same has zero compunction showing up announced after dinnertime. Americans can be quite rude, and Adam is the only American Thomas knows personally. Fortunately or unfortunately.

“I got the house number wrong the first time and some guy answered the door just as he was pouring hot wax all over himself,” Adam says, by way of greeting. Charming, as always. He has braced himself against the door, as if about to charge through it like a raging bull, horns- first.

“Sounds like you got Mister Wickham,” Thomas tells him, then he realizes Adam is standing in front of him wearing breeches. Probably a costume from another one of his plays. Even his hair looks unkempt, damp with sweat and hastily twisted into a half-pony tail. He’s starred in a number of plays in the last half year, mostly off the West End: _Red, The Pillowman, Camino Real._ And often complained about how the grittier parts always went to the posh little twinks who went to RADA.

“Hello Adam,” Thomas says suspiciously, squinting. “Why are you dressed like Mister Darcy?”

“I thought you were under duress,” Adam explains. He even has riding boots on. Thomas would swoon if he owned a fainting couch and was a governess in a romance novel past their prime. “Your stew was burning, you said,” he adds sheepishly. “I thought you needed help.”

“Well, my stew is no longer burning, thank you,” Thomas says, trying to be as gracious as one can be without their stew burning. 

Adam’s gaze slides down to the part in Thomas’ robe. Some thigh, a flash of knee. Thomas quickly fastens the ties around his waist and hugs his chest, pressing his legs together primly. He probably shouldn’t have answered the door wearing next to nothing. Then again, it isn’t as if he’s been expecting company after 7 o’clock.

“I got the part,” Adam continues, dragging his gaze back to Thomas’ face where it should be. “The lead role. I can’t talk about it yet, but. It’s supposed to be good money. I haven’t seen the contract but my agent promised he was going to get me a really good deal. So.”

Thomas blinks at him. He feels like he’s hearing everything from underwater; he feels like he’s swimming, a fish himself riding against the current. Still: Adam looks good. In breeches. Thomas opens his mouth to tell him when his stomach decides now is a good time to get sick all over Adam’s shoes. And they’re such nice shoes too, genuine calfskin leather, the heels worn in with gentle scuff marks. Adam may not own a lot of expensive accruements but a man who invests in good footwear is a man of great character. 

“Oh dear god, I’m so sor—” Thomas throws up one more time before he can even finish that sentence. Adam helps him to the second floor bathroom without comment, where he props Thomas against the wall and starts wiping his face with a damp wash cloth as soon as Thomas’ stomach settles. Thomas glances down at the mess that is himself, notes the wide parting of his robe and the fact that Adam can see his silk boxers in all their gold-limned glory. On the top five most embarrassing things he’s ever done to himself, this probably ranks second to that time he went berserk at the toy department and ended up getting fired. For the first time.

Adam, however, does not laugh. He doesn’t even put on that obnoxiously insincere smile that people often do when Thomas embarrasses himself in front of them. Instead he reaches out a hand and straightens Thomas’ robe, running his hand over the smooth fabric before pulling it closed and fastening the ties firmly.

“You smell like a dive bar,” Adam comments, wiping up his vomit, being so oddly calm about it. He sets the wash cloth aside, dips it in soapy water, before sliding it across Thomas’ jaw in lazy swipes.

Thomas closes his eyes, shivering. “Thank you,” he sighs.

Somewhere above or near or below him, he hears Adam’s reverberating laugh. “That’s not supposed to be a compliment, kid.”

“I’m a year older than you, you know. I’m not a kid,” Thomas tells him, blinking one eye open to glare at him. “I’m thirty four years old!”

“Oh, I know,” Adam says, and parts Thomas’ hair to one side. He blows it into place when that doesn’t work the first time, his breath like tea steam perfuming Thomas’ face. “I know,” he says.

*

It’s Bea’s first visit which means Thomas will have to clean the entire flat top to bottom. He puts on Puccini’s _La bohème_ on repeat to underscore this momentous occasion, donning his cleaning gloves and strapping on his protective goggles. The flat is in a good enough state that it only takes him a good hour and a half to tidy up. Afterwards, he focuses his energy on preparing dinner. Thomas is not the best cook in the world but he’s not the worst either, and he can take instructions fairly well especially when delivered by Jamie Oliver. He manages to put together a three course meal, with time enough for two choices of dessert. 

Dinner prepared, rosy-cheeked and showered, dressed in his Sunday best, Thomas answers the door to a waiting Adam with a bottle of Maraschino in hand. 

Thomas grins at him, delighted. “Everyday I thank the lord for Tesco, and I’m not the least bit religious.”

Adam starts doffing his jacket as soon as he’s through the door. 

“What are you doing?” Thomas asks, alarmed.

Adam pauses midway into hanging up his jacket behind the door. “Uh,” he says, turning in a half-circle. “What do you mean?”

“Don’t you have a play to star in?” Thomas asks. “David Tennant to stand behind?”

“It’s Sunday. It’s my day off.”

Thomas stares at him.

“You asked me to run an errand for you,” Adam says slowly, “On a Sunday. The least you could do is invite me to dinner.”

Thomas stares.

“I thought the invitation was implied,” Adam continues in disbelief.

“Yes, well,” says Thomas, starting to feel embarrassed about the misunderstanding. “I suppose there’s no helping it then. You’re already here and you did buy the alcohol.” Thomas hums thoughtfully, then wags a finger in Adam’s face. “Try not to flirt with my friend and please keep your shirt on at the dinner table.”

Adam snorts, curtsying irreverently. His sleeves are rolled up his elbows and he’s actually wearing jeans that fit him, along with a black leather belt with a reliable built. The only other times Thomas has seen him dressed up are when he has an audition scheduled or when he’s attending a funeral. He barely even tries when he’s at work, wearing the same paint-splattered trousers for a week before Thomas had called him out on the dress code. 

“You have nothing to worry about,” Adam promises him, still in the same irreverent tone as ever. “Your modesty — and your friend’s,” he shoots a pointed look in Thomas’ direction, “is safe with me.” 

Thomas doesn’t deign this with a response. Instead he takes a dinner plate from the cupboard and clatters it down onto the table. Then he takes an apron off the row of hooks by the fridge, ducking his head underneath the loop and making quick work of the strings that go around his waist. Thomas squats in front of the warm glow of the oven where his roast beef is cooking nicely, shining with fat. Two more minutes according to the timer, then another twenty minutes till Bea is due to arrive. She’s taking a cab from the train station, refusing to be picked up and insistent on finding her way to Thomas’ flat herself.

Thomas checks his distorted reflection in a stainless steel pan hanging above the counter. He smooths down his collar. He’s ready.

*

The thing about dinner parties is that Thomas is absolutely shit at throwing them. He’s never had a group of friends before that he felt comfortable around inviting to dinner. Christmas dinners were out of the question as he spent the holidays working or else lounging about in the sofa watching nature documentaries narrated by David Attenborough and eating his body weight in expensive chocolate. This will be his first time hosting Bea — and Adam — for dinner.

Bea arrives apologetic, half an hour after she’s meant to, sweeping Thomas into a hug and standing on her tip toes. She smells good, like hairspray and flowers, and when she pulls back from pressing a kiss to Thomas’ cheek, her lipstick smudges her two front teeth. “Hello, you,” she grins. “You look good, Thomas. Healthy and hale, if I do say so myself. Who’s this?” She turns to Adam, Adam who has been standing there with his hands in his pockets, waiting to be introduced.

Thomas forces a grin to his face, glancing behind him at Adam. Who is he indeed. “He’s works for me. At the shop.”

“Oh,” says Bea, and they’ve known each other long enough now that Thomas can recognise what each inflection means. “For a minute there I thought he was —” She catches herself quickly and extends a hand to shake. “I’m Bea,” she says. “Beatrix Potter.”

Adam looks at her, then at Thomas, then at her once more, eyebrows creeping up, lips twitching. The thing about Adam is, he’s like a volcano, just as unpredictable and just as explosive. Thomas tenses for about a half second until Adam clasps Bea’s tiny hand in his, shaking it firmly. “Adam,” he says, smiling genially. “Sackler.”

“Right,” Thomas coughs, uncomfortable already and feeling horribly awkward. A rule of thumb he has always lived by: never let your social circles collide. Not that Adam is within that diagram at all, but these days he’s all Thomas has in terms of social interaction, barring the butcher, patrons of the toy shop, and his therapist. 

Thomas ushers Bea inside the rest of the flat, taking her coat and hat. “Let’s get you settled, darling. You must be exhausted from the trip here. Adam bought us alcohol!”

“Oh, did he?” Bea squeals, eyes sparkling with delight. She nudges Adam with her elbow and winks. “How lovely of you Adam! I can’t wait.”

Thomasknows: Bea loves drinking. She can drink anyone under the table: painters, coal miners, flight attendants. The list goes on. Probably he shouldn’t let Adam anywhere near the Maraschino tonight. He doesn’t want him relapsing on the off chance Bea challenges him to a drinking game.

Thomas leads Bea inside, proud to show her the rest of the flat: the living room with its perfectly arranged sofa cushions, the kitchen where the table is already set, napkins perfectly folded, the cutlery shining, and the windows which are fringed with ferns instead of curtains because it’s the only part of the flat gets enough sunlight. Bea coos appropriately, touching things here and there, asking about where he’d gotten most of his furniture. She feels up the walls, fingertips dragging across paint, peeling wallpaper, Stucco, and skipping nimbly over the corners.

“This is beautiful Thomas,” she says later at the dinner, reaching across the table to place her hand atop his. “You’ve got a lovely home here.”

Adam stabs a section of his key lime pie and chews noisily.

“Thank you,” Thomas says, pointedly ignoring the noise Adam is making. “I chose every piece of furniture myself.”

“Oh, I don’t doubt that one second. Everything here looks… distinctly you!”

Adam snorts.

“That’s a good thing though, isn’t it?” Thomas asks worriedly, anxiously gnawing on his bottom lip. 

Bea gulps down the rest of her Maraschino, stifling a little burp. She won’t make eye contact for some reason.Thenshe starts laughing and fiddling nervously with the table linen. The effect makes her sound delirious. “Oh, sure, of course! Of course!”

“What she means is your place looks like an Apple Store,” Adam chimes in in a completely flat tone.

“What?”

Bea waves him off, snorting. “He’s just joking, aren’t you Adam? Adam, Adam, Adam. You know what, you’re funny. You are a. Very. Funny. Guy.” She punctuates each word by stabbing him on the shoulder with a finger . Adam simply responds by scooting farther and farther away until he’s a clean two feet away from her. 

Then Bea meets Thomas’ gaze across the table, a look of unhinged glee on her face making Thomas feel slightly queasy. Bea and alcohol don’t go well together. Though she hardly touches the stuff, on the rare occasion she _does_ drink, she makes a whole occasion of it.

Then Bea opens her mouth and Thomas braces himself for the car wreck. “You should date Thomas,” she says, apropos of nothing. “He needs fun. He needs _funny_. I hardly hear him laugh. Have you ever heard him laugh?” She leans over and winks at Adam who’s strangely calm about all of this and even looking bemused. “He’s gayer than an elephant on roller skates, you know. You may think he’s all prim and proper, but underneath all that is a gay baby needing to be shagged. He’s just gotten very good at keeping his urges under wraps. Why do you think he cleans so much? Takes the edge off. Keeps himself from getting too hor—”

“Right!” Thomas interrupts, absolutely mortified and lunging out of his seat. He wishes the ground would swallow him whole. “I think you’ve had enough alcohol for the evening, hm? Let’s get you some water.”

“Oh, come on, I don’t need to be sober to see the doe-eyed looks Adam keeps throwing your way,” Bea laughs. She toasts her empty glass at Adam, downs it even though there’s nothing in it, and Thomas decides now is the time to whisk her away upstairs for bed, away from Adam’s hearing range. Bea puts up little protest, slumps in his arms with a giggle and a sigh when he half-carries half-drags her to bed. He doesn’t have a guest room so she’ll be using his. In the meantime, Thomas will be sleeping in the living room, with freshly laundered sheets and a pillow from upstairs, the one that helps him sleep better at night and smells faintly herbal.

He finds Adam in the kitchen, a dish towel slung over one shoulder as he loads the dishwasher before giving it a solid thump with his shoe to nudge it shut. Adam wipes his hands on the dish towel, then does a little double take when he sees Thomas standing there by the doorway, not doing anything, just standing there quiet and motionless like a field mouse, or a complete lunatic. Some people are born cool and Thomas is just not one of them. He missed cool by a large margin. He was the least popular boy at the group home, arriving almost at the cusp of puberty with too big feet and buck teeth, a painful need to be accepted. He had nightmares every night. 

Thomas leans languidly the doorjamb and has to catch himself from tripping on the tile.

Adam raises his eyebrows in concern. “You all right?”

Thomas waves him off, straightening up like nothing happened.“So,” he begins tentatively, “That was Bea.” His only friend in the world, he doesn’t add. He’s surprised she has kept in touch despite Thomas’ own wishy-washiness. At the worst of times, he tends to isolate himself from people even when his therapist advises him to do the exact opposite. Friends are important, she tells him. But all Thomas has in lieu of them are vague acquaintances and colleagues from work so her point is moot.

“She’s a nice lady,” Adam comments. 

“Yes, though she does get a bit chatty when she’s had a bit to drink,” Thomas adds. Thomas himself is slightly tipsy, though still clear-headed enough to tell right from left and recite the alphabet backwards. He didn’t want to get drunk at dinner; the last time he did get drunk, he ruined a person’s shoes and had to pay exorbitant cleaning fees. He’s surprised Adam is wearing the same pair of shoes. Has he learned nothing from the previous ordeal? They’re considered bad luck!

“Well, better chatty than miserable and horny,” Adam supplies. 

“True,” Thomas agrees. “Wait, what?”

Adam just shoots him an inexplicable smile. It’s late so Thomas walks Adam to the door and hands him his coat. If he rushes, he can still catch the last train home but he seems intent on dilly dallying, shifting from foot to foot, looking antsy.

“I’m flying to LA first thing tomorrow morning, so I’ll probably need the next few days off,” Adam blurts.

“Oh, it’s the Big Project, is it?”

Adam rubs the back of his neck, ducks bashfully. “Yeah. Wish me luck. I hope I don’t fuck it up.”

“I suggest you carry a rabbit’s foot with you, that might help,” Thomas says.

“No, I think that might actually get me questioned at Immigration.” 

“Right,” Thomas mutters, coughing into his hand.

Adam turns around at the door. He softens into a smile. Something about his expression, quiet, patient, makes Thomas unable to keep himself from smiling back. This could be a movie, where everything had meaning and each silence asked a question and the only place god existed was the space between two people. Thomas can’t help but be moved.

“I’ll see you around,” Adam says.

“Good night,” Thomas tells him, and watches him trudge down the three crumbling steps from his blue door. Adam lifts two fingers in an irreverent salute, skipping the last step onto the sidewalk, his hands jammed inside the pockets of his jeans. The leather jacket stretched over his shoulders catches the light of the street lamp above him. Thomas watches him until he reaches the bend, walking with his head down and kicking at a stray pebble across the street.

When Adam finally disappears from view, Thomas locks the front door and settles in for the evening, propping his sock-covered feet on the coffee table. He tears through a pack of jammie dodgers, flips through Netflix for about half an hour and then gives into his curiosity and watches an episode of _Broadchurch_. 

All throughout dinner Thomas and Bea had been telling each other amusing anecdotes, swapping stories about life in Windermere and London, and the entire time Thomas could feel Adam thrumming with nascent energy next to him. Adam dropped his napkin twice, and when Thomas bent down to pick it up for him, their hands brushed and Adam had given a look, half bemused impatience, half something else that Thomas had yet to decipher, and then he smiled, and Thomas hit his head under the table in shock. Thomas had been thinking about the strange smile ever since.

Thomas is fifteen minutes into the latest episode of Broadchurch when Adam’s character appears, speaking in an accent that’s an unholy combination of Australian and British. Still: he’s quite good, hovering in the background to David Tennant’s left, quietly intense as he gripped a stack of Manila folders in one hand and a half-eaten donut in the other. He’s supposed to be playing a rookie detective who eventually gets killed in the line of fire. Two episodes later and that _does_ happen, though his death is more of an aside than something featured onscreen in lieu of the current story arc. 

“Huh,” Thomas says afterwards as the credits roll and the television bathes him in the dark of living room in blue-black flashes. For a moment he just sits there, absorbing everything in silence. The clock above the mantle tells him it’s five minutes before midnight. Upstairs, Bea sleeps, peaceful like the dead while the rest of the flat sleeps along with her.

Thomas shakes off the heady feeling of being awake long enough to watch the day slide into the next. He slips under the covers avalanching the sofa, squeezing his pillows into submission until they acquire the desired shape. Then he shuts his eyes and sleeps. 

Later, he dreams about Adam. 

“Hey,” says Adam in the dream. They’re standing outside a church. “Is it still raining?” he asks. 

And sure enough Thomas lurches awake to the steady rhythm of rain on the roof.

*

Adam leaves for LA the next morning. Nothing changes, life goes on, because life is just like that: people are always on the move, sometimes to or away from each other. Left to his own devices, Thomas finds a number of things to do around the shop: the accounting, the inventory, the maintenance. He redecorates and rearranges the shelves, swapping out the toys on display at the window for the newer one’s this season. There seems to be a never ending list of things that need doing now that Adam isn’t around to be a total menace to the children, starting from clearing out the storage room and donating some older toys to charity. Thomas finally gets around to binning the Silly Sausage costume and places a chalkboard sign on the sidewalk advertising tea and biscuits. It has the desired effect, increasing foot traffic by 20% though many of his patrons simply pop round for the tea and the comfortable seating.

Bea extends her stay by a few more days and helps him run the shop for a while. They drink at night, eat their body weight in aloo gobi by way of takeaway, and she gives him her unsolicited business opinion while three sheets to the wind and with a distended belly full of spicy Indian food: move back to the country, start a garden, forget London. She misses him being her neighbour; without him around there’s no one to comment on the state of her radishes or drive her to town for the odd errand.

“Also,” she adds, sloshing Prosecco everywhere on the living room carpet. “I still haven’t introduced you to my brother. I think you two will get along famously. He’s big. He’s a big guy. You like big guys, don’t you?”

“Oh god,” Thomas groans, because this is not the first time Bea has attempted to set him up with someone. When it was clear that it wasn’t going to work out between them, she was quick to set him up with every gay guy she knew, from the postman to the men running the only hardware in town; she’s like a meddlesome aunt at her worst, a determined yenta. 

When she leaves after a few days, Thomas misses her with a pang that almost puts him in a depressive episode. He’s late to open shop, early when he closes. Bea promises to call, but Thomas knows she’ll forget eventually. And she won’t be the only one. Thomas hates talking on the phone and higher forms of technology completely elude him. He prefers face to face conversation, the ubiquitous pen and paper. After he was sent to live in a group home, he wrote letters to his parents for every year they were dead and no other family came to claim him. He had beautiful handwriting. It was the first thing the hiring manager at Harrods noticed about him; then she complimented his fastidiousness and told him to get a haircut. 

Bea’s absence almost overshadows Adam’s, in that Thomas spends more time wondering about her vaguely. Time passes without him noticing, and then it’s time to change the display again at the window. Spring arrives; the snow melts off the streets. A warmth creeps quietly into the air, curling like woodsmoke.

Thomas is wobbling precariously on a stepladder, arranging items on the topmost shelf when the door chimes like jangling pirate coins. He has a ready greeting on his tongue, and he pivots fast to acknowledge his visitor. Then he sees that it’s Adam. Adam who’s sporting week-old stubble with his shades hooked into his collar, a wrinkled boarding pass tucked in the back pocket of his jeans.

“ _You_ ,” Thomas says, his tone dangerously close to accusing. 

“What,” replies Adam. Thomas hops off the stepladder, miscalculates a step and topples backwards into him because of course these things just happen to him. 

Before the floor rises to meet him, Adam manages to catch him in time. For a handful of seconds, Thomas stays where he is, suspended backwards in an awkward angle with Adam’s chest cushioning his fall. “Careful,” Adam warns, and then: “You okay?” 

Thomas blinks. Adam doesn’t blink back. He’s never noticed how Adam has threads of brown in his hair. It’s funny the details you miss from day to day exposure to anything, anyone.

Thomas disengages himself from Adam’s hold, steps back, and smoothes his hair back with his hand so it’s not falling in his face. He adjusts his jumper, shoves Adam right in the shoulder and Adam the wily bastard laughs—actually laughs.

Thomas’ heart gives a sharp throb all of a sudden, a feeling he decisively pushes away as he regards Adam from head to foot and back again, twice. “I don’t suppose you think you’re still employed here,” Thomas says, because he can’t quite help himself. Adam has caused him so much grief by disappearing for weeks without notice. He could have hired someone else to replace him but Thomas kept worrying Adam would come back to nothing. So Thomas waited. And waited. He waited a long time and then waited some more. 

“I got pretty busy for a while,” Adam says, sheepish.

Thomas’ anger rises up into his face, making his eyelid twitch visibly. Immediately, he’s awash with the overwhelming want to punch Adam, to scream at him. “Were you nowhere near a telephone?” he hisses, unable to keep the ice from his voice. “You were gone almost a month.”

Adam lifts his arms in resigned surrender. “Look, I know it was a shitty thing to do, I admit that, but I kept putting it off calling you because I wanted to tell you in person.”

Thomas’ eyes narrow speculatively. “Tell me what?”

“That I’m quitting,”Adam says. “And I’m moving back to the states.”

Adam isn’t flying back to live in New York this time. He’ll be staying in Los Angeles where he’ll be preparing for his next role, the details of which he’s sworn to secrecy. Apparently, it’s a big movie. The studio has enough money to put him up in a hotel while he undergoes a two month training program to prepare for the role. Protein shakes, a personal trainer, a nutritionist on his every beck and call: the whole nine yards. They hired him because he looked mean and big but had the potential to look even meaner and bigger. 

Thomas is happy for him, he really is, but for some strange reason he feels divorced from it all. Adam regales him with anecdotes from the last few weeks he’d been away: his insomnia following the flight to LA, what the weather is like in the city of dreams (temperamental). How he has to drive everywhere (and hates it). Two out of every ten people he meets have had cosmetic surgery of some kind. If he wanted to, he could draw up a list of things he hated about LA, and that list would be longer than both his arms and legs combined.

Thomas studies him. It’s like that part in a murder mystery where everything gets elucidated. Adam talks and talks, and it’s rapid fire. He looks happy, or at least as happy as someone like him can be with his mood swings and general distrust of anyone under the age of twenty. Thomas interrupts him mid-rant into the slew of times Adam has been told t o get his nose fixed. “So where would you like me to send your pay cheque?”

Adam pauses to look at him. “What?”

“I still haven’t paid you last month,” Thomas explains. “Do you want me to just wire you the money?”

An unreadable look befalls Adam’s expression before he huffs out a disbelieving laugh. “Just wire me the fucking money. I don’t care. Do what you want.”

“What does that even mean.”

Adam’s gaze remains steady, though his mouth tenses into something like appraisal. “I didn’t come here for the money. I came here to say goodbye. Believe it or not, I actually enjoyed working for you. You were very patient with me. Most people aren’t. They take one look at me and think I’m some sort of upstart miscreant. You took a look at me and gave me a chance.”

Thomas suddenly looks away. He rubs up and down his sternum, using the heel of his wrist to dig in. He doesn’t look at Adam. He’s reasonably sure he never will again afterthis. He glances up when the door chimes and a mother and her little daughter walk in, the daughter balanced on her hip. This leaves their conversation at a standstill, and until Thomas has helped them choose a toy to bring to a neighbour’s fourth birthday party, wrap it up in tissue paper and a complementary paper bag, Adam doesn’t budge.

When they leave, Adam slips quietly into the storage room to collect his things from his locker. He has a rucksack with him. Thomas hadn’t noticed it the first time. He stands there watching him with his arms crossed as Adam grabs things haphazardly and dumps them in the waiting bag at his feet, the zipper open like a gaping maw, a year’s worth of accumulated knick-knacks: a baseball, an expired jar of peanut butter, a paperback copy of _How to Lose Friends and Alienate People,_ a few musty t-shirts and a pair of old Nike trainers. He hands Thomas back a stapler than he finds within the inky depths of his locker, and then his shiny gold name tag, hardly worn. 

Thomas accepts the name tag with a heavy heart. He may have left Harrods and despise it with the fury of a thousand suns, but the real reason he got these name tags custom made is because it reminded him of his old job. He runs his finger along the polished surface, designed to look like real gold, except real gold is never so perfect. Then he grips it firmly in his hand, closing his fingers around it so the edges dig bluntly into his skin.

Adam gives him a brief little smile that dimples his cheeks. “Thanks for everything,” he says, sounding sincere enough that Thomas is almost moved. “I really appreciate it.”

Thomas nods. “Well,” he says, and thinks: _this is it_. Last looks. Thomas decides to take his fill of him: he doesn’t think he’s ever seen Adam more relaxed in the eighteen months he’s worked for Thomas. Even his skin gleams with the dew of good health. Thomas nods again, at a loss for what to say. “Good luck,” he says eventually, because after all is said and done, he truly means it.

Every now and then Adam reveals just how vulnerable he is, or he lets himself slip and says something to make Thomas think he could actually be likeable if he wanted to be. Thomas wants good things for him. He never realised how much he depended on Adam until he suddenly just wasn’t there anymore. 

Adam lingers by the door, rucksack shouldered, still looking in his direction expectantly. Thomas nods at him again, a kind of acknowledgement of Adam’s leave-taking, except instead of knowing he’ll see him again the next day, this time it’ll be for good.

The bell chimes at the door when Adam leaves. Thomas waits a few more minutes before releasing the breath he’s been holding. When he’s convinced Adam is truly gone, he walks up to the shop door to turn the sign from OPEN to CLOSED.


	2. 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thomas and Adam reunite.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter gets a little bit more bizarre lol.

* * *

 

 

“Look!” Stensland says brightly, bounding up the counter and waving a set of movie tickets in his right hand. “I won free tickets to see Cobalt Blue!”

Thomas looks up from the his log book, adjusting his reading glasses to stare at Stensland blankly. Stensland has been raving about this movie for the last month and a half, using all his free time at the shop checking his Twitter and Tumblr feed for updates. If he didn’t dazzle customers with his wit and put them so at ease, Thomas would have fired him long ago. He never came to work on time, and often took frequent froyo breaks because he claimed sitting still made him lose karmic energy. It didn’t help that he smelled like patchouli on the days he neglected to shower.

“Hm,” Thomas says thoughtfully inspecting the tickets back to front and then back again. He has no opinion on the matter, being so far removed from pop culture that he still watches the same old slew of movies. At the group home, there was an old television set that still had to be manually operated with knobs and buttons. It showed everything in black and white. Children were only allowed to watch movies in the early evening for about two hours until bed time after they’d done the washing up. Thomas cherished this activity because it meant he got to huddle with the rest of the group kids and share the fantastical experience of watching a movie with them. It was a communal act that made him feel as if though were family.

Stensland grabs the tickets from him and fans it across his face, planting one hand on his hip. “Gosh, if only I had a date and I wasn’t such a poor sap with zero prospects,” he laughs. “Hah!”

Thomas sips on his tea and sets it down, squeezing the bridge of his nose where a headache is beginning to morph. Stensland is probably going to ask for some time off even though hit’s a Monday and he didn’t have to work over the weekend. Thomas braces himself for it, with a ready excuse on his tongue should Stensland start throwing a fit, but then Stensland just leans across the counter and says, “You’ll go with me right?”

“Hm?” says Thomas distractedly, spritzing water at Sophie-Ellis-Bextor. Dew drops roll down her waxy skin. “Hang on a second. What? Why me?”

“It’ll be great!”Stensland insists, walking around the counter to take both of Thomas’ hands in his. “You need to see this movie Thomas. It’s got action and romance and some good old above the waist nudity! And besides, it’s not like you have plans tomorrow night, do you? It’ll just be you and your imaginary cat again.”

“My imaginary— _what_ ,” Thomas huffs. “You don’t know whether I have plans. I have _friends_.”

Stensland gives him a pitying look as if to say _sure you do._ “I’d ask someone else but the guy I matched with on OKCupid just got deployed to Afghanistan.”

“Right, so heartening to know I’m just the second option.”

“Hey,” Stensland says, “I’m just being honest here. Don’t want you to get any funny ideas now or suddenly get attached to me.” He grins.

Thomas doesn’t deign that with a response. He shakes his head, tells Stensland he’ll think about it, and settles into the rhythm of a Monday morning, doing the inventory and helping customers pick out toys for their children, freeing up the storage room of accumulated junk from the recent holiday. The next evening, he closes shop early so they could brave the drizzle and the traffic choking into motion and head to the Crouch End Picturehouse. The movie isn’t until 8:15 so they still have time to wander down the lobby. There’s a cafe and restaurant, with a few people milling about by the bar, chatting and nursing respectable-looking drinks. Thomas buys himself a glass of Prosecco. After Stensland shoots him needy looks, he caves and buyshim an appletini and they quickly flag down a table after its previous occupants vacate it. T

he ambience is quite nice: cosy, with ambient lighting, the windows all made with glass so that it peers out into the street at pedestrians and the slow trickle of Tuesday traffic. The high ceilings expose bits of piping. Thick cushy carpet, sleek handsome furniture, obscenely large flat-screen television showing previews in between 15-second ads, and a dozen mass-manufactured nods to the current trends in interior design. Thomas sips his drink, taking it all in.

“It’s so beautiful here,” Stensland comments dreamily, “I probably shouldn’t have worn flip-flops.”

Thomas laughs at that. Stensland always wears flip-flops. Meanwhile, he wore what he always does, because they came here straight from the shop: jeans, and a button down shirt with the sleeves rolled up to the elbows. It’s too hot for a jumper, the weather starting to warm up with the promise of Spring. He looks around him furtively, at strangers engaged in amiable conversation, laughing and clinking their glasses and cutlery. He has half the mind to slip them his business card — a man has to hustle — but now is probably not the time.

Soon enough it’s 8 o’clock. They find their seats with nary a problem, Stensland hugging a tub of popcorn bigger than his head and vibrating in his seat. He’s buzzing with excitement, chatting feverishly to anyone who’ll listen about how this is his favourite franchise, out of all existing ones including _Star Trek_. 

It’s a classic, a remake of the 1992 movie of the same name, the first in a quadrilogy. Thomas has never seen it before, much less heard about it, but then again he’s lived under a rock for most of his adult life so he’s missed a lot of things. He wrapped his entire life around Harrods, and it seeped into everything, food and drink. For ten years he didn’t have friends outside it, devoting most of his free time advancing his career, working overtime, kissing the right arses. And where did that take him.

Where indeed.

Thomas fishes out his reading glasses; he rarely wears them, much to the consternation of his optometrist. He only needs them when he’s doing the accounting, or checking his e-mail in the evening as it helps his eyes adjust to the light. He has chronic astigmatism. It’s been a while since he’s stepped foot inside a theater and wearing his reading glasses often helps with the headaches. 

The world comes into clearer focus, and just in time too because who else shows up at the screen but Adam. _His Adam._ The same Adam who moved to LA to pursue his career. Actually what he really said was, “I need to see this through. Often times I’m chicken shit at taking chances, but I’m not getting any younger and my life can’t just be a series of aborted starts. It’s not about the money, though it may look like it is. It’s about going on the road less traveled. Have you ever read Robert Frost?” Thomas hadn’t. But Adam had made his point.

Adam left for good, smiling at Thomas in sympathy before getting smaller and smaller in the distance.

In the present, Thomas shoves down a rising sense of disbelief. He has to physically count to ten in his head before he can breathe again, and even then it’s slow, choppy breaths. He hasn’t seen Adam in well over a year, hasn’t even heard from him, or thought about him since he left for LA. Now he’s watching him in full colour, his strong nose projected onto a massive movie screen. How strange life is. Back then, Adam would have hated watching himself. He said just as much, was always self-conscious of both his appearance and his acting, often flying into a rage when Thomas brushed his worries off as unfounded. 

Thomas had never seen anything he’d been in before, unless those few episodes of Broadchurch counted where Adam mostly delivered bland one-liners and stood a little to David Tennant’s left, out of the periphery and sometimes blending into the background. He had never stopped to think that Adam had a whole life outside of the shop. They spent so much time together that it just didn’t seem possible.

“This movie is going to change cinematic history forever,” Stensland declares, as soon as the credits roll and the lights in the theater start blinking open one by one. Thomas blinks, rubbing at the corners of his eyes with a handkerchief. He feels like he’s coming out of a fog, or waking up from a long, disorientating dream populated by pirates, scoundrels, and princes turned scoundrels. Adam had taken off his shirt during several points in the movie, and though a naked man is nothing Thomas hasn’t seen before, it’s different when the image is stretched across a fifty-foot wide theater screen and the chest is owned by someone he used to know.

“Did you see that part where he delivered the monologue and then grabbed Miranda by the waist and kissed her before jumping into the pit of despair promising he’d come back for her?” Stensland swoons, sighs, throws his hands over his chest in a dramatic gesture. He’s not the only one in the theater wearing a Cobalt Blue shirt. There was a merchandise table set outside selling all sorts of tie-in merchandise: watches, dolls, even plastic replicas of the weapons used in the movie.

Thomas regards Stensland tiredly, shouldering his bag as he rises from his seat and takes his paper cup to the bins. “Stensland, we watched the same movie. I saw that scene.”

“Just checking —- in case you fell asleep at some point,” Stensland says, sheepish. “You were so quiet the whole time I thought you may have fallen into a coma. Were you blown away by the majesty of Caliban’s abs?” He barrels on without waiting for Thomas’ reply, all the way to the door, the tube station, and then before they part ways and head separate directions, “They picked a really great actor to play him in this one, everyone thought it was gonna be a flop. He’s a dead ringer for a young Stuart Miller. Haven’t seen him in anything before this though. Googled him a bit and it turns out he was on a few episodes of Broadchurch and Law and Order.”

“I’m glad you enjoyed the movie,” Thomas settles on, not really knowing what to say to Stensland, or whether to come clean about the fact he knows Adam personally. Or at this point, has known him. He’s certain he’ll just be a footnote in Adam’s long and illustrious career. Maybe one day they’ll run to each other and Adam will smile and say, “Oh Thomas? I know him. I used to work for him in a shabby little toy shop in Crouch End where no one came to buy anything.” 

Later, Thomas prepares for bed, resolutely not thinking of Adam who is oceans away. He goes through his rituals with mechanical efficiency, then stands by the window, cupping a mug of cooling Oolong tea in one hand. 

In the living room, he aimlessly flips through channels on the telly, finally settling on one that’s playing something grainy and black and white. He sets the volume low enough so that the sound is just pleasant white noise in the background. He’s not absorbing anything, just watching the images dance and flicker across the screen, the same way he just sat there moments earlier in the dark of a movie theater, running his eyes over an almost-forgotten face. Adam had been nothing short of brilliant and beautiful, but Thomas hadn’t expected anything less of his performance; he’s an equally brilliant and beautiful man after all.

About halfway through _The Seven-Year Itch_ , Thomas gets up and washes his mug in the kitchen sink and then finally goes to bed. He doesn’t sleep for a long time even after he turns on his noise machine. When he does manage to summon it, it’s already morning and the sun has to bathe the room with a sleepy orange glow reminiscent of Caliban’s cigarette lighting up the dark.

*

Wednesdays are almost as busy as Mondays but Thomas is not prepared for the small crowd of people thronged outside the shop first thing in the morning. He hasn’t even had his coffee yet. This is just too much social interaction than he’s equipped for. He hopes none of them are actually tourists or worse yet Americans as both demographics tend to get very obnoxious and start taking pictures of everything even without permission. Thomas makes a detour to grab a scone and coffee, in hopes that by the time he finishes queuing up for breakfast, they’ll have already left and wandered off. 

They haven’t, and in fact the crowd has even grown larger in his absence. Thomas squeezes through the throng of people, breakfast in hand,and stumbles into the shop which he’s surprised is just as populated. A closer look reveals that they’re mostly harmless teenagers, or at the very least young adults, picking up stuff and putting them back down again.

“Thomas!” Stensland cries out in relief, hugging him. He grabs Thomas’ scone and chews anxiously on it, crumbs flying everywhere as he speaks. “I’m glad you’re finally here! What took you so long? It’s half past ten! There’s never been this many people in the shop, and only half of them are buying anything. Hey you — get your grimy little paws off that teddy bear unless you plan on buying it!”

 

Sometimes, it’s difficult to fathom how Stensland ever made it to his late twenties without being shivved in an alley or chased by a wild pack of dogs. He’s absolutely the worst employee Thomas has ever had the misfortune of hiring, but he’s useful in less discernible ways. He consumes more American media than is strictly healthy, but is terrific at remembering all their patron’s names. Sometimes he even makes little backstories for them; he says the stories help to make them more memorable. 

 

“I got here this morning and there was a bunch of people already outside,” Stensland tells him. “The worst of it is, they’re being an absolutely terror and refuse to leave! They’re scaring away all the children! Won’t anyone think of the children?”

 

Thomas pinches the bridge of his nose. Stensland often speaks with no pauses or punctuation, making basic information hard to parse. Thomas suspects he learned how to communicate by watching wildlife documentaries as a child and simply making random noises with his mouth. “None of what you’re saying is making any sense to me. Slow down, Stensland, you’re giving me a headache.”

 

“I think these people are here because of the Buzzfeed video.”

 

“I don’t follow. Buzz — is that pornography?”

 

Stensland looks at him pityingly before dragging him behind the safe and warm confines of the counter where his laptop is sitting open to a video paused to — yes, that’s definitely pornography. He was watching pornography. In the shop.

 

Thomas squints, unable to make sense of where the two men hugging on screen ends or begins. 

 

Stensland clicks out of the window. A quick hop on Google pulls up a video clip of Adam sitting uncomfortably on a stool in front of a plain white background. The clip is six minutes and forty-two seconds long, and he mostly talks about his new movie where he’s playing an AI out to prove his humanity before he can be decommissioned in front of a tribunal. The twist of the story is that he falls for the daughter of the one of the scientists who created him, not knowing he was made in his each of his creator’s likeness. A class Frankenstein’s monster story. 

 

The title of the clip reads _Adam Sackler’s Five Favourite Things._

 

  1. Favourite food: protein shakes
  2. Favourite weather: cold
  3. Favourite book: _Utopia Is Creepy: And Other Provocations_
  4. Favourite exercise: [bleep]-ting



 

Then he names McGregor’s Toy shop as his all time favourite place and Thomas’ stomach does an unexpected somersault. 

 

“I’m from New York, grew up in Brooklyn,” Adam prefaces, “I’m a New Yorker, you know? I love eating alone, I’m not afraid of pigeons, I don’t look before crossing, but there’s something about this shop that’s just — I don’t know, magical. It’s in the UK, in Crouch End. It’s this tiny little shop selling kid’s toys, and it’s just. I don’t know. It’s pure to me in a way I can’t put my finger on. I love it there. Even though children scare me with their little hands and feet. I can’t think of any other place right now, sorry. I know that’s not the answer you’re looking for.”

 

The clip ends after the camera zooms in on Adam’s bashful face. Stensland clicks out of the window and faces Thomas with his hands pressed to his hips. 

 

“He should work for the local tourism board,” Thomas opines, still reeling from everything that’s happening: the realization that Adam still remembers him, the fact he had talked about the shop at all, and that there are Google Street Views of his toy shop splashed across a youtube channel followed by millions of people. That despite all this, he’s still sort of hoping Adam would walk through the door like he used to fourteen months ago, to complain about traffic or the queue at the bakery.

 

“How does he know about this place? Is he right here now watching? Did we sell him anything? Why wasn’t I at the shop at the time? Was I asleep?”

 

“Stensland,” Thomas says, bemused. “He worked for me a long time ago. In fact, you replaced him as my assistant. He was nice fellow, bit intense, but nice.”

 

Stensland’s expression softens, like ice cream melting in the shade. Thomas has only seen this expression once, when Stensland’s favourite couple broke up during season three of Dawson’s Creek after which he had to take a week off to recuperate even when he’d seen the episode five times. “You mean you were exes,” he concludes. 

 

“We never dated, I was his boss.” Exasperation creeps into Thomas’ voice as well as a degree of embarrassment. He can’t think of Adam that way. He never has. 

 

“People date their bosses all the time, and fuck ‘em too,” says Stensland matter-of-factly. 

 

They look at each for a moment and Stensland is the first to shudder violently, then Thomas. Just then, someone knocks an item off a shelf with their elbow and doesn’t bother even bothering to pick it up. And that’s it, the last straw: Thomas fumes. He worked hard arranging everything to his liking. He clenches his hands into fists and swings his bag off his shoulder, marching up to the middle of the shop to get everyone’s attention.

 

“Look,” Thomas says, putting on his best authoritative voice, the one he uses to cow difficult children or small animals, “Unless you’re buying something, I’d appreciate it if you could all just leave. You’re scaring away customers by being a general nuisance, and — great, someone just tracked mud all over my floors. Thanks,” he adds dryly, and then crosses his arms to appraise the room. “Well don’t just stand there! Get a move on! Out, or I call the police! Out, everyone one of you — not you Mrs Holocombe, you can stay.”

 

As soon as the last of the stragglers slip out the door, Thomas is hit with a wave of immense relief. 

 

“Magic,” Stensland comments, clapping, “That was some crazy witchcraft! You’re like the pied piper of Hamelin except your super power is driving people away.”

 

The rest of Thomas’ afternoon is swallowed up watching clips of Adam on Youtube in between ringing up customers and re-shelving toys. The experience leaves him feeling a bit strangely detached. He sees Adam in various scenarios: swimming in the ocean, locked in a sword fight, romancing a beautiful Parisian woman along the Champs-Élysées. In some of these clips he has his shirt off, in others, he’s grunting and soot-covered, wielding some sort of weapon.

 

Later in the day as he’s flipping the sign at the door _closed_ , a camera flashes in front of Thomas’ face, leaving him blinking and blinking again.

 

Sunspots dance in his vision and when he comes to seconds later, there’s a woman with very red nails standing just outside, holding a tape recorder. “Hi, I work for _The Daily Mail,_ do you have a minute?”

*

To say that Thomas’ life changes after that is understatement. Reporters don’t arrive at his doorstep in droves but a few fans drop by to visit and occasionally buy a few toys in exchange for achat. He says pretty much the same thing to all of them: that Adam was a lovely chap who worked for him for a little over two years, that he was hardworking and kind, that they should probably, please, not loiter outside expecting him to swing by, as it’s simply bad for business and he’s never going to show up anyway. He lives in LA. 

 

This is Crouch End, home of parklands and fairs and artisan bookshops and a confusing patchwork of streets. 

 

A few of Thomas’ photos end up on _The Daily Mail_ _Online_ and Twitter, all of them unflattering. 

 

Stensland keeps him updated. He runs his own secret Twitter on the side, refreshing his feed for news about Adam and the shop. “Did you know he signed on for a six part Netflix series? He’s filming right now in Cardiff. Helen Mirren is gonna be in it and so will Harry Styles.”

 

“Stensland, while I appreciate the blow by blow, I have more important things to worry about.”

Stensland gives him a lazy look as if to say, _really,do you now?_ and continues perusing Twitter, his legs crossed atop the counter.

“You should read the stuff they say about you online. People have called you some nasty things for kicking them out that one time.”

“People can say whatever it is they’d like,” Thomas says tiredly, “They don’t know me at all.”

“CobaltBlueBoy761 calls you a prick,” Stensland reads off his phone. “And Matthew_Peterson1992 just started a thread speculating about you and Adam. He says you were most probably exes the way he talks about the shop like that.”

Thomas has no energy to refute that; there’s no point responding to bloody nonsense though at the same time a part of him is tempted to wrench Stensland’s phone away from his hands and scroll through all the comments. But then what’s the point. He doesn’t know these people, Adam is no longer part of his life, and none of what they’re saying is true.

Suddenly, the door chimes. Thomas swivels his head to greet their visitor. It’s a deliveryman holding an armful of flowers. The bouquet is so big he has to shift from foot to foot to keep himself from careening into the walls. 

“Package for Mr Thomas McGregor,” he says, handing Thomas the flowers, then the clipboard. “Sign here please.”

Thomas signs on the dotted line with a little flourish. “Who are the flowers from?” There’s a card but it hasn’t been signed. 

The man shrugs. “I’m not at liberty to say. We’re really big on customer privacy at FlowersRus.”

“Is that really what your business is called?”

“Yep,” says the man, tapping the brim of his hat with an embarrassed laugh. “Enjoy your flowers, Mr McGregor. Those are top of the line, too. Someone must really like you eh?” He winks, then slips out of the shop, leaving Thomas and Stensland blinking in stunned silence.

Of course, Stensland is the first to make a comment. “Are you dating someone behind my back?”

“ _What_ ,” Thomas says. “How could you even — I’m not dating anyone. When would I have the time?”

“That’s what I thought too,” Stensland says, turning suspicious eyes on him. “Did the card say who it was from?”

Thomas checks and checks again. Nothing. Just a printed: _I’m sorry about the all the hubbub._

“Could it be…”Stensland trails off, raising his eyebrows speculatively. Their eyes meet and they burst out laughing.

“Doubtful,” Thomas says, rubbing his eyes.He shakes his head. “He’d never.”

“And he’s all the way in Cardiff too,” Stensland adds. “Maybe you have a secret admirer.”

“Maybe,” Thomas says, but he doubts it. He’s never charmed a person before unless they worked at a call centre or was someone’s aunt. 

*

Then Adam shows up two weeks later. 

Thomas is alone at the shop, Stensland having gone off to buy lunch which often takes him about an hour or two on account of the awfully long queues during the lunchtime rush. The sign at the window reads _CLOSED_ but Adam blatantly ignores this in favour of ringing the bell at the counter — repeatedly.

Thomas is ready to have a word or two with whomever is fanatically ringing the bell when he emerges white-eyed with rage from the storage room. Then he sees that it’s Adam and all the fight drains out of him immediately.

“Adam,” he says, clutching a stuffed Koala to his chest.

Adam looks good. Healthy, well-taken care of, his hair shorter at the sides but still worn in a messy wave over his face like commas. He’s wearing a hoodie, huge sunglasses that eclipse his face, which he tucks self-consciously into his front pocket. “Hi,” he says, giving Thomas a dimpled smile. Thomas didn’t even know he was capable of smiling like that unless he was acting in a movie.

“Did you get the flowers I sent?”

The casualness of the question throws Thomas off guard. For a second he doesn’t know what to say. A year of radio silence and Adam asks him about flowers. 

“Those were from you?”

“Of course they were,” Adam says, “Who else would they be from? I wrote you a message. On the card. I tried to be discreet.”

“You didn’t sign your name,” Thomas points out. “It could have been from anyone.”

“I saw your pictures,” Adam begins, interrupting the whole point Thomas is making. “My publicist showed me.”

“And here I thought you were the famous one,” Thomas jokes, but Adam is not having it, looking at him intently in a way that makes Thomas swallow down the lump growing in his throat. Those pictures were terrible: all nose and blurry eyes, not his best.

“Sorry I talked about the shop on fucking Buzzfeed of all places. I wasn’t thinking. I was put on the spot and it was a long day and I just said the first thing that came to mind.”

Thomas doesn’t ask him if he meant what he said about the shop, and instead opts for the easier route. “It was good publicity. Sales went out by 90%. I had to restock a lot of items. Really, there’s no need to apologise.”

“Yeah?” Adam laughs, “But it couldn’t have been easy fielding all those people.”

At Thomas’ surprised look, Adam adds, “I read the fan Twitters. Well, my publicist does. So I know what they’ve been saying.”

“Oh my god,” Thomas says, only realising it now. “You have a publicist.”

“Yeah,” Adam agrees. “I’ve turned into the worst possible version of myself.”

“I wouldn’t say that,” Thomas says. Really, Adam is being unnecessarily cruel to himself. He always has been, because like Thomas, he pushes and pushes himself until he’s got nothing left to give. There are people out there who will exploit that, and Thomas wants to guard him jealously from that inevitability. He doesn’t want Adam to get swallowed up and then spat out, or have his hopes crushed. He’d been there, and it was terrible work getting yourself out of your own self-made pit of despair. Not the same pit as the one in Adam’s movie; this one didn’t lead into an alternate dimension that was the inverse of everything you ever knew.

“I saw your movie,” Thomas tells him, when the silence just drags on, thick and uncomfortable. “I didn’t think you’d star in anything like it.” He doesn’t mean it in a bad way but Adam throws his head back and laughs in response, bitter.

“Haven’t you heard?” he says, “What I want is to sell out.”

*

Adam does the unexpected: in the end he invites Thomas to dinner. He’s never been the type to invite people to dinner but maybe he’s a different person now and LA has changed him. Thomas knows a little bit about celebrities; he has a few come by Harrods every now and then. Some are friendly, some are aloof; most can’t be bothered interacting with the staff.

Adam gives Thomas an address; he’s staying at the Corinthian Hotel in Westminster, which is forty minutes away by car, give or take traffic. He says he can’t stay very long because of ‘commitments’, making air quotes in the air with his fingers, and because his publicist will fly into a rage if she knew where he’d been. Apparently he just snuck away after a morning of BBC Radio Interviews and a photoshoot with Vanity Fair. 

Thomas resists the urge to raise his eyebrows. Any further and they’ll rise up into his hairline and these days he doesn’t have a lot of it.

As Adam turns to leave, he goes in for a kiss on the cheek and a hug at the same time. Thomas just stands there and takes it, awkwardly butting foreheads with him, not sure where to put his hands or how to angle his face. 

“I was trying to be European about it,” Adam tells him. Up close he smells rather nice, like expensive cologne or aftershave.“With the whole cheek kiss thing,” he explains belatedly.

“I was trying to be very British meanwhile,” Thomas jokes, “Which is to say very stiff and awkward.”

They exchange numbers and say goodbye. Minutes after Adam has left, Stensland returns with bagfuls of food from the Italian restaurant round the corner. He sets the food down before eyeing Thomas from head to toe, a piece of plastic straw dangling from the corner his lips that has been chewed to bits. 

“Did I miss anything?” he says, glancing between Thomas and the door, “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

*

So: dinner. All right, Thomas, thinks, he can do this. It’s just between friends after all. There’s no need to get starstruck or put on airs, or wear his best shirt, though that’s what Thomas ends up doing anyway, and he even wears cologne and parts his hair differently that evening. He has to remind himself constantly that it’s just Adam, the same one who used to stab his food with chopsticks when their mechanics frustrated him; he helped Thomas paint one side of the shop’s wall and for an entire week there were paint chips in his hair and he smelled like gasoline. For some reason, while he was running around London going to auditions and starring in plays, Thomas was never invited to any of them. He wonders why. 

He’s so keyed up, his palms sweat profusely, and his heart starts beating two hundred kilometers per hour. He almost forgets his wallet and keys and has to run back to his flat to grab them. Then he takes the tube to the hotel, wondering about the trajectory his life has taken.

He’s early; he made sure of that. He needs time to take in his surroundings, scope up the place, in case he needs to make a hasty retreat. The lobby of the Corinthia is luxurious marble-floored glass-ceilinged entity, with unrepentant crystal chandeliers and furniture that could have come from Passerini or Linley Belgravia. 

It’s been quite some time since Thomas has been in this part of London, and while it fills him with intense nostalgia for things he could have had in another lifetime, he wants nothing more than to get the fuck out. Too late though: a woman wearing an earpiece and clutching an iPad is approaching him with a clipped gait, her smart kitten heels tap tap tapping against the marble floor. She’s a head or so smaller than him and yet something about her demeanor makes Thomas feel, well, just a bit silly, as he rises on his feet to firmly shake her hand. 

“Thomas McGregor?” she asks, tapping something into the screen of her iPad before giving him a curt smile. “You’re here for Adam right?”

“Yes,” Thomas says. “He invited me to dinner.”

She nods in understanding. “Follow me please.”

They go into the elevator. The buttons are a beautiful polished gold and Thomas is tempted for a moment to run his fingers along them. He manages to catch himself in time just as the lift chimes to announce their floor. The woman leads him past rows and rows of doors before coming to a stop in front of one with the words _Presidential Suite 422_ in gilded letters. She raps her knuckles three times, twice, then another three times, and a face emerges from behind the door but it’s still not Adam.

“Soomin!” the man cries, in accented English. He’s wearing a series of gold rings in each hand and his hair is long, almost to his ears, silver with threads of white. “And who is this? Is this him?”

Before Thomas can ask what’s going on, the door opens further to reveal Adam in the background, getting fitted for a suit. His arms are stretched out to a T and he does a half turn when he sees Thomas’ there. “You made it,” he says, grinning dazzlingly and ignoring the man showing him two sets of bowties to choose from. “Thanks for fetching him Soomin. Really appreciate it. Come in, Thomas.”

Thomas has no idea who all these people are, and as he steps into the room, he realises there are more of them: some of them are talking on the phone, others just standing there observing Adam as his tailor brushes dust off his trousers with a lint roller. Soomin keeps tapping on her iPad. At this point Thomas suspects she’s just playing Candy Crush. He isn’t wrong.

Adam gets his attention by striding over to him and gripping his shoulder. 

Thomas almost jumps. “If you’re busy, I can just come back another time,” he says feebly.

“What do you mean?”

“You said you wanted to go to dinner.”

“Thomas,” Adam laughs, looking at him all confused. “What are you talking about? This is it, dinner.”

“You mean with all these people?”

“No,” Adam laughs again. Soomin clears her throat in a corner. “I have to attend this stupid award show.”

“It’s not stupid,” Soomin chimes in, but Adam ignores her, continuing, “Initially I wanted to take you to dinner, somewhere nice and lowkey, you know, even though I hate pretentious shit like that. But apparently I can’t skip the BAFTAs tonight in favour of having a real fucking life. So: the BAFTAs it is. I got some some asses to kiss. As you do.”

“Right,” Thomas agrees. “The BAFTAs.”

“Being in this industry is one part ass-kissing, and eleven parts groveling, and then some of the time real talent.”

“Which you do have in spades,” Thomas jokes.

Adam hums, grabs the bowties offered to him and presents them to Thomas, wiggling them in the air. “Which one do you think I should pick?” 

Thomas inspects both: one is a batwing, the other is a diamond point. He rubs his chin thoughtfully. Both are black and compliment Adam’s dinner jacket. He was only in charge of the toy department at Harrods but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t know his way around a suit and tie. “This one because the texture is better,” he finally settles on, pointing to the diamond point one, “And the shape too. Suits your look, I think.”

Adam smiles his crooked smile, the corners of his eyes relaxing into contented crinkles. “Thanks. Also,” he adds, turning his back to Thomas to check his reflection in the mirror being held aloft by his tailor. “I hope you don’t mind but I needed a plus one tonight so I put in your name.”

“What,” Thomas says.

*

They outfit him in Burberry because they just happen to have a spare suit lying around in — Thomas’ exact size and measurements. Thomas is starting to suspect this had all been planned beforehand but before he can draw his own conclusions he’s being whisked inside a waiting limo, a wool silk scarf looped around his neck to protect him from the elements. It’s expected to rain tonight; Thomas can already feel a chill in the air. 

For half an hour he’d been poked and prodded at, his hair styled with pomade, his face dabbed with a little bit of foundation in the event he was photographed or caught in the crossfires of someone more important being photographed. 

Soomin had handed him a tube of cherry lip balm and instructed him to pocket it. “Don’t frown too much, it shows your under chin. If someone is taking a picture, just put your hands in your pockets and smile blandly, and face a little to your left; that’s your good side. Don’t answer personal questions. Don’t _ever_ promote your business. If someone asks you for your name don’t ever give it to them.”

“So basically just stand there motionless like furniture,” Thomas deadpans. 

Soomin gives him two thumbs up. “You got it. Now you’re ready! Oh, and remember to have fun!” she calls brightly, waving at them.

Thomas fidgets in the backseat. So does Adam, who keeps fiddling with his bowtie and running a hand through his hair. Finally, Thomas sighs in impatience, scoots over and bats Adam’s hands away from his own neck, adjusting the angle of his bowtie one final time before smoothing it flat again his neck. 

“There,” he says as he leans away. “All done. Now stop touching it. It’s unbecoming.”

Adam just snorts and continues to rub a palm anxiously up and down his knee, his earlier confidence gone. This is the Adam Thomas knows, has seen time and time again, the one who pouts when he doesn’t get his way and chews gum noisily and with an open mouth. 

“I’ve never been to the BAFTAs before,” Adam confesses.

“Well,” Thomas says after a moment, “Neither have I.”

Adam smiles. “So we’re going to pop our BAFTA cherries together. Nice. Maybe it’ll be like, a little bonding experience.”

Thomas cringes. “Why does that sound so awful when you say it. No. Just: no. Don’t ever say anything about cherry popping around me again.”

But Adam is still smiling. Whether Thomas likes it or not, he finds himself smiling too and flushing all over. His palms are still sweating but at least his poor heart has calmed down a little. 

“Hey, thanks for coming with me,” Adam says.

Thomas snorts. “Did I have a choice?”

“Well, you could still leave if you want,” Adam says quickly, “I could have the driver drop you off somewhere and —”

“Adam,” Thomas interrupts, a hand on his arm to stop him from getting so worked up. “I was joking. Believe it or not, I _am_ capable of expressing humour every once in a while.”

Adam’s expression is a mix of fond and surprised. “When did that happen, huh?”

“When you left for Los Angeles and I had to find ways to adapt and cope with your absence,” Thomas says.At Adam’s puzzled, look, he forces out a laugh and pointedly looks away. “Anyway,” he says, shifting to a more jovial tone. “Let’s just enjoy the evening, shall we? ” 

*

“Is that Sir Ian McKellen?” Thomas asks twenty minutes later, pointing despite the myriad of flashbulbs going off around them. “He looks shorter in real life. Do you mind if you take a picture of us together?”

Adam groans and makes a face, but gamely lets Thomas drag him towards the general direction of Sir Ian McKellen who has stopped to pose for a few pictures. 

“I don’t know him personally but I don’t think asking for a picture on the red carpet is the right way to insinuate myself into his social sphere,” Adam tells him.

Thomas supposes Adam has a point. With a heavy heart, he watches as Sir Ian McKellen walks away, engaged in conversation with dame Helen Mirren. They whisper back and forth, throw their heads back and laugh. It’s too loud to hear anything in this din, with photographers shouting for pictures and industry personnel directing the flow of people, showing them where the doors are. Every now and then a celebrity steps into the spotlight and strikes a pose for the cameras just a minuter before they’re hounded by TV presenters asking about who they’re wearing.

Adam avoids them as dutifully as possible. Thomas follows in his wake. He’s never been to the Royal Albert Hall before; it’s spectacular, nothing short of an architectural marvel. Thomas tries not to stare: at the ceiling, the walls, at the famous people milling about around him, already half-drunk, most of whom he only vaguely recognises but knows are important because of their manner of dress. All the men are in designer suits, the women in long sweeping gowns.

Adam and his plus one seat are three feet away from the main platform which puts them right next to Colin Firth and his wife. Thomas tries not to have a panic attack on the spot. Just a year ago he was watching a younger, fitter Colin Firth parade around in breeches, sporting curly sideburns and confessing his love most ardently. Now he’s sat to Thomas’ left, portly with age though no less handsome, complaining to his wife about the earlier drizzle. When he catches Thomas watching them, he smiles and gives him a nod of acknowledgement. Thomas smiles back. He seems nice.

Adam returns to his seat with two frosted bottles, one of which he hands to Thomas. Thomas is about to ask whether Adam should be drinking when he realises that this is not complementary alcohol; it’s complementary water. He inspects the label, runs his thumb along the Swarovski crystals spelling _bling_ in loopy letters. Apparently this is some of the cleanest drinking water in the world, taken from a secret spring in Tennessee. It goes down smooth, at least.

“You all right?” Adam elbows Thomas in the side. “You’re looking a little peaky.”

Thomas shakes his head. It’s not the expensive water, retailing at £23.60 apiece. “Just overwhelmed that’s all, by all this…grandeur.” He gestures to the room at large. The ceremony is about to begin, with ushers helping people find their seats, celebrities leaving to walk around and catch up with old friends. Thomas spots Julie Walters who waves at him after mistaking him for someone else. Thomas waves back anyway. 

It’s just like secondary school except people here have more money and are better dressed. 

Adam pats him on the arm, stealing back his attention. “Don’t worry, I’m overwhelmed too. I’m just better at hiding it than you are because I’m an actor.”

Thomas huffs out a laugh. Adam doesn’t look overwhelmed. In fact, he looks like a Queen’s ransom, sleek and elegant in his Burberry suit with his hair dampened by English weather. Thomas takes his fill of him, drinks him all in. Thomas’ favourite thing to do tonight had been watching Adam’s shoulder blades move underneath his jacket. It’s amazing how the right suit can transform a person. Thomas might be quoting Colin Firth in Kingsman, but he believes its truth. 

“Oh, shut up.” 

“Really,” Adam insists, hunching in his seat and wrinkling his suit. He grabs Thomas’ hand without asking, squeezing it in pulses before rubbing his thumb across Thomas’ knuckles thoughtfully. Adam’s hand is overly large, slightly damp with sweat from nerves, but Thomas doesn’t mind, doesn’t even shake it off. 

“You’re doing great,” Adam assures him, giving him a small smile before the theater plunges into darkness to highlight the beginning of the ceremony. “Better than expected.”

*

The BAFTAs can be described as follows: loud, decadent, harmful when swallowed, bad for recovering alcoholics, and not suitable for children under the age of 13. 

All in all Thomas has a wonderful time. Adam isn’t nominated for anything but he knows people who are (David Tennant for Broadchurch) and they clap whenever anyone they like wins, sober up when they lose. They decline all invitations to any after party or open bars, mostly because Adam is trying to be a good boy and avoid temptation. The car comes round to pick them up, waltzes them back to the hotel for what is ostensibly a five minute drive without traffic but becomes fifteen due to the horrific horde of paparazzi chasing after them. Everyone wants a picture.

When they come up to the presidential suite, Thomas is surprised to find everyone gone; the room is absolutely still, empty. Housekeeping must have paid a visit because everything is immaculate, no discarded clothes on the floor and bags full of outfit changes, the pillows on the sofa are arranged and fluffed up. The room, it seems, is asleep. 

Adam shuts the door behind him, and the sound makes Thomas jump, hyperaware that they’re alone now.

“You can spend the night if you like,” Adam tells him. “Or I could have the car take you back to your flat.”

Thomas makes the executive decision to stay, and he says just as much though in less eloquent words. “All right then.”

“All right?” Adam echoes. They’ve been staring at each other for the past half hour, in the backseat of the limo, in the elevator, until now, not doing anything of value, just staring. Thomas feels his jaw twitch, his entire face tensing up. He feels like he’s perched on the precipice of a volcano and about to take the terrifying plunge inward. The only question is, is he willing to?

Won’t Adam like to find out. 

Thomas excuses himself to use the bathroom. The lighting is flattering but he supposes that’s what people are paying for. Thomas hunches over the sink, checks his breath, and swipes several coats of chapstick over his lips before smoothing his hair back and giving himself a brief pep talk. “All right old boy, you can do this. You showered this evening and didn’t have any curry. You may have let yourself go a little but you’ve still got a few tricks up your sleeves to make up for it. You’ll do well! Or as well as anyone can manage. Which is maybe not so well. But at least this is happening at all, so.” He nods at his reflection in the mirror; it nods back resolutely.

“God, I look good in Burberry,” Thomas mutters, seeing himself for the first time. He hadn’t wanted to seem vain while they were primping him for the BAFTAs, but now he understands why Adam took him as his date in the first place: he looks good. Not too shabby. And the trousers fit him well, cupping his arse delicately. It’ll be a shame to have to return the suit eventually; Thomas never worn anything quite as nice.

Thomas flushes the toilet to give the impression of having used it, then he strides back to the den where Adam has been waiting for him on the sofa, sprawled indolently across the cushions, his legs spread in invitation. He probably doesn’t know he’s doing it because he looks up from his phone when Thomas enters the room. Adam has doffed his jacket and tie, freed the first three buttons of his shirt so that it gapes open and reveals a white undershirt. 

Thomas appreciates how the soft material of his trousers stretches across his thighs, almost as much as the fact Adam wore braces along with them. He’d slipped out of them too and now they’re hanging loosely at his sides. 

Adam raises his eyebrows at him, sitting up straighter and tucking his phone away.

“Hi,” he says, raking a hand through his hair as Thomas approaches him. “You really wore the fuck out of that suit tonight.”

Thomas stops himself from curtsying like a little girl with ringlets. He flushes with pride; he likes being complimented. “Thank you,” he says.

Then Adam beckons him with a leonine grin. “Get over here so I can take a good look at you,” he says, and pats his knee to show Thomas where he wants him. Thomas doesn’t know what comes over him but he goes without further prompting. He straddles Adam’s lap, sliding out of his shoes in the process, and wraps his arms around the breadth of his shoulders. It must be the expensive water, clouding his judgment because doesn’t even mind when Adam slides his hands under the seat of his thighs so he can cup Thomas’ arse and squeeze. A pulse of arousal shoots straight through Thomas and he bites on his bottom lip when Adam cranes his neck to press their noses together. He can smell his hair product; Thomas wants to kiss him.

“What are we doing, Adam,” Thomas sighs, already melting into Adam’s touch. He feels like clay, malleable in Adam’s hands, becoming whatever he wants him to be, needs him to be. 

“I don’t know, but it feels good,” Adam replies, “And if you don’t let me kiss you right now, I just might dissolve into molecules.”

“That’s a bit overdramatic, isn’t it.”

“Then let me kiss —” Thomas kisses him, quickly but firmly, then pulls back to inspect his face. Adam’s eyes are closed and his mouth is still half-parted, his throat bobbing as he swallows down a breath. When he blinks his eyes open, he stares back at Thomas before closing a hand over the back of Thomas’ neck and pulling him down for a kiss that’s a long time coming. This one lasts longer than the first one, sloppy with a little more depth and teeth. It’s like swallowing seawater, kissing Adam; the more you have it, the thirstier you become, the easier it is to drown.

Thomas only belatedly registers Adam gripping him by the back of the thighs to carry him to the bedroom where he drops Thomas onto his back on the expensive linen. Then he stands back to admire the look of him there, Thomas with his limbs splayed, breathing hard and heavy, an obvious erection tenting his trousers that he’d be embarrassed about if not for the fact Adam is sporting one too. There’s so much to say, and plenty of good reasons to stop, but Thomas is only a man first and foremost; he’s ruled by instinct, and right now if Adam doesn’t touch him, he may just start weeping like a man who lost all his fortune to the lottery.

Adam grins, crawls on all fours on top of Thomas, pouring himself all over him like midnight oil. If this were any other occasion, or anyone else, Thomas would at least make some vague gesture towards resisting but right now it just seems like an amazingly good idea to have all that weight and muscle bearing down on him until he’s comfortably flat on the bed, completely covered up by Adam. 

“You taste like cherry lip balm. Fuck— I’ve been wanting to kiss you since— Jesus, Thomas, you have no idea, do you.” Adam groans between kisses. “You’re so fucking— will you let me — oh fuck, I have a photoshoot tomorrow.” 

That derails Thomas’ train of thought which until that point had been: _cock cock cock, touch me please please please._ He stares at Adam who has abruptly stopped kissing him but hasn’t quite extricated himself from the strong clutches of Thomas’ thighs wrapped around his hips. They’ve had a pretty good rhythm going, humping each other through layers of Burberry, keeping good time. 

Adam’s palms sweep up Thomas’ sides in an apologetic squeeze. 

“I’m sorry,” Thomas says, “You have a what now?”

“I need to be up early. At fucking five in the morning. Which is,” Adam checks the time with a flick of the wrist. Something about the suaveness of the gesture makes Thomas’ cock leak harder in his trousers. Adam should be outlawed. No one should look that good checking their watch; a younger Colin Firth had nothing on him and he used to be the star of Thomas’ every vivid wet dreams that often tended to be Regency-themed. 

“Four hours from now,” Adam continues.

Four hours is enough time, Thomas thinks, and he must have said that out loud because Adam kisses him again, hungrily, with a growl, nipping at his bottom lip and rubbing his fingers across Thomas’ clothed chest. Thomas moans a little, mouth so wet and swollen, locking his ankles to keep Adam in place between his thighs.

“That’s not gonna be enough for what I plan to do with you, baby,” Adam says in a low voice.

“Good god.” Thomas swallows, hips twitching helplessly in Adam’s hands. Then he remembers: “I haven’t had, well, you know, since…” He groans in embarrassment, covering his face with his hands, his ears turning pink. He often had more eloquence than this. It’s just sex. He isn’t a prude, or a blushing virgin. It’s just that it’s been a while for him.

“I can’t even remember when the last time was, frankly,” Thomas confesses. “But I want to. I want you to, well, fuck me,” he says. There’s no euphemism around that. He wants Adam to fuck him.

“Good,” Adam laughs, his tone deceptively casual, “Because as soon as I get back from that photoshoot, I’m gonna fuck you on every surface of this goddamn room. Fold your knees back to your ears and pound your sweet little hole. Bend you over the sofa. Put you on all fours on the carpet. God, I bet you’re so tight. I bet you’d cream your pants at the first slide of my dick inside you. You’re gonna love it so much you’re not gonna wanna get off my dick for days.”

“Jesus,” Thomas echoes. He feels rather faint. “Do you always have to be so filthy?”

“You like it anyway,” Adam reminds him, glancing down at Thomas’ lap. 

Thomas hates that Adam is right. He rolls out of his embrace to sit up and undo his cufflinks. tugging at his tie. “I suppose I’ll have to change out of this. I don’t want to ruin this suit any more than I have,” he says, just as Adam puts a hand on his elbow and gives him a probing look.

“Thomas.”

“What?”

Adam pillows his head in Thomas’ lap. “I wanna eat your ass,” he says, natural as anything. 

Thomas just stares at him. “A moment ago, you said you needed more than four hours to do all manner of sordid deeds to me, and now you want to eat my arse?”

Adam shrugs one shoulder. “Just a taste, then we can go to bed.”

Thomas wonders how this has become his life. It’s been an extraordinary day and maybe this is just the thing to top it all off.He’s still hard, and he finds it difficult to say no to Adam when he’s looking at him like that, like he can eat Thomas all up.

With some degree of grumbling, he crawls back to the bed, lets Adam undo his belt with a clink; then his trousers along with his boxers come down with a deft motion, puddling around his ankles. When his straining cock catches the elastic of his boxers on the glide down, Thomas lets out a noise of pleasure at the brief friction, his hips jerking upwards into the touch. 

Adam leaves him in just his socks and white dress shirt, before moving Thomas onto his front, rolling him onto his hands and knees. Something about being half-naked makes Thomas aware of the texture of the bedspread against his skin. His cock juts up, untouched, curving against his belly, leaking drops of precome. 

“Spread your legs,” Adam says, and how he does that with his voice, dip it just low enough so that it slides like water down Thomas’ spine, will forever be a mystery. 

Thomas complies, giving his knees a wide berth, enough that when Adam starts to knead his arse, he almost slips forward on his stomach. He’s got such big hands. 

“You’re so cute.Fuck, look at this ass. So fucking cute. Can’t wait to put my dick in it.”

Thomas snorts out a laugh, shaking his head against the pillows. “Can you not say things like that? It ruins the mood.”

“I’ll say whatever the fuck I want.”

“All right,” Thomas says, “I didn’t want to hurt your feelings. Just: get on with it already and stop — oh!” Thomas moans, starts to tremble all over like a deck of cards, starting from the tip of his cock. Adam is just absolutely filthy, spreading him open with his thumbs, hooking him open like that and licking him right there where it feels so good, where Thomas is the most sensitive, until Thomas is a writhing wriggling mess rocking downward on his face, teasing his own cock against the linen. Adam may not have been able to fuck him with his cock tonight, but he fucks Thomas with his tongue just as deeply as Thomas would have wanted him to, spearing him open with it before pushing a wad of spit into his twitching hole. 

Adam growls when Thomas attempts to pull away, over-sensitised, and lets trails of spit dribble down Thomas’ arse crack. He gives Thomas’ cheeks a playful swat before diving in once more and squirming his tongue. 

Thomas is so wet back there he might not need lubrication for Adam to just slide in.He can’t think of anything except Adam’s mouth and his own cock needing friction and the sound of their breath rasping together. 

“Adam,” he whimpers.

“Shh, baby, I know, I know,” Adam tells him, moving his mouth along Thomas’ clothed back, working it up to his neck where he sucks a noticeable bruise that will only purple tomorrow, for everyone to see including his adoring public. He braces a hand on Thomas’ skinny hip, then has the other one close around Thomas’ cock. 

“Even your cock is cute,” Adam says, giving it a firm squeeze so that the head pushes out three perfect drops of precome. “It’s the perfect size for my hand.”

“ _Hng_ ,” Thomas says.

Adam kisses Thomas’ shoulders as he strokes him to orgasm. A few uncoordinated pumps and Thomas is whimpering and jerking in his arms, spilling over the circle of his fingers, wriggling his arse like a harlot against the hard bulge against his inner thigh. Thomas rolls onto his side, spent, and then onto his back to watch Adam finish, eyelids half-lidded with contentment, breath only just beginning to slow down in time with his heart beat. His legs are spread open, but at this point he doesn’t care enough to feel self-conscious. Doesn’t matter that Adam can see everything; he’s had his tongue up Thomas’ arse after all. They’re past the point of embarrassment.

Adam’s hand, wet from Thomas’ come, gropes for the zipper on his trousers, and he manages to get them open for a great deal of fumbling. It comes as no surprise to Thomas that like his hands and feet, his cock is big. Perhaps bigger than what Thomas is used to. 

“No, before you ask, I’m not ten inches,” Adam jokes, “but it’s close enough.”

Thomas doesn’t doubt that. He’s going to be so sore when Adam fucks him, but it’ll be worth it in the end. He likesfeeling worn out afterwards, feeling stretched and used. He likes being wanted.

“Fucking fuck,” Adam hisses as he jerks himself off, making a mess when he comes all over Thomas’ Burberry shirt. “Fuck, yeah, take it. You look so good with my come all over you. Fuck, yeah. Thomas. Shit.” He squeezes out a few more drops, a couple landing across the naked skin of Thomas’ thighs. Thomas doesn’t mind though he worries briefly about the state of his Burberry shirt; it’ll be difficult trying to explain what caused the stains without alluding to certain under the belt activities.

Adam grins sharply at him, scooting farther up the bed to mark Thomas’ hip with a bruise. He runs his hands up and down Thomas’ thighs until finally Thomas shivers, his skin pebbling in goosebumps. “How’d I do?”

“You’re really asking me that now?”

Another shrug. Like, _why the hell not._ Adam clenches his hands around Thomas’ hips and brushes his nose along the dark seam running down his navel, up and down, back and forth till it starts to tickle. All at once, Thomas feels a sudden rush of tenderness towards him; how could he not when Adam is looking at him with an expression like Thomas hung the moon. He cards his fingers through Adam’s hair, surprised to find how soft it is. He does it again and this time, Adam closes his eyes, humming. 

“You get full marks Mr Sackler,” Thomas tells him, raising his eyebrows. The two of them burst out laughing. 

*

Thomas spends the next day holed up in the hotel room: ordering room service, watching the telly, and when he can no longer help himself, having a dip in the enormous clawfoot tub. He fills it up with all sorts of essential bath oils and then slides into the soapy water which is level with his chest. Then he slides a pair of earphones on and listens to Puccini, reading a book he’d picked up among the detritus of Adam’s belongings: _Thieves of Manhattan_ by Adam Langer. He can’t remember the last time he’s ever felt this relaxed.

There’s a note left on the nightstand in Adam’s chicken scrawl, promising he’d be back shortly. 

Thomas had woken up alone in bed with a crick in his neck and a heavy blanket over him, his head feeling like it was filled with cotton wool from vague half-remembered dreams. Yes, his subconscious seemed to tell him, that’s right. You just had sex with Adam. You let him tongue your arse! You utter degenerate. Strangely, the voice of his subconscious sounds like David Attenborough. 

Later, Thomas gives in to the temptation and has a leisurely wank, one finger trying to wriggle its way inside the tight ring of his untouched arse. It takes longer for him to come than usual, even after going through half the tube of complimentary hotel lotion. Finally, he just gives up in the attempt and checks his phone. He’s missed half a dozen calls from Stensland, and has eighteen unread messages in his inbox, also from Stensland. Thomas doesn’t read them all; he calls him right away and isn’t all that surprised when he picks up immediately.

“Oh good! I thought you’d died!” Stensland says, sounding relieved. “I saw your pictures online. When were you gonna tell me? You went to the BAFTAs last night? And you didn’t even think to take me with you? To defend your honour from Adam Sackler’s loutish ways?”

“I didn’t plan on going,” Thomas snorts, “At least not at first. Anyway, one thing led to another and Adam needed a date so I went with him.”

“And now it’s almost lunchtime and you’ve yet to be at the shop!” Stensland tuts. “I checked the comments on Twitter and people seem to think you’re Adam’s new boyfriend now. Did you know he was openly bisexual? Ah, the things you learn on the internet. Also I cannot believe you met Domhnall Gleeson. Tell me you’re his new best friend or at the very least got his number.”

“I don’t even know who that is.”

Stensland gasps. “How can you not know who he is? He’s in everything, even that Japanese toothpaste commercial with the dancing dinosaurs. He’s my idol, Thomas. He gives gingers a good name. You won’t understand because you’re not ginger.”

“Right, sure,” Thomas says. He distinctly remembers running into someone resembling that man, now that he thinks about it: tall, slender, with a head of orange hair and skin pale as anything. Probably they ran to each other in the lobby while Thomas and Adam were waiting for the car to come round. Mr Gleeson had complimented Thomas on his scarf and commented on the fact they were both wearing Burberry that evening. “Great stuff,” he said, nodding in Thomas’ direction, regarding him from head to toe. Thomas had nodded back, spooked for some unknown reason before starting to walk away.

Stensland’s voice brings Thomas back to the present where there’s more than just strange actors to deal with. “I’m running the shop in your absence, if you must know,” he says dramatically. “And I expect compensation. There’s a bunch of people here asking for you. And the fans? They’re back with a vengeance, Thomas.”

Thomas groans. “I’m the least interesting person in all of London. What do they even want from me? A soundbite?”

“Tell that to Buzzfeed UK,” Stensland huffs. “I didn’t even know there was a Buzzfeed UK. Anyway, they gave me a free shirt and pen and told me to tell you they wanted to do a fluff piece on your ‘quaint little shop’. Yes, I said that with quotation marks.”

Thomas sighs. He’s already getting a headache. 

“It’ll be good publicity for the shop,” Stensland suggests. “Maybe we’ll even get to sell all the Thomas the Tank Engine train sets we have just lying around in the storage room.”

“I don’t care about publicity,” Thomas says. “I just want to be left alone so I can run my bloody shop in peace!”

*

It doesn’t hit Thomas how popular Adam is until he googles him on his phone. His phone is one of the older iPhone models, blocky and thick, lacking any relevant apps, and used solely to communicate, but there he is, Adam’s face on the internet, with pages and pages of search results on him ranging from articles to interviews. He’s “Tumblr’s New Boyfriend of The Month” whatever that means. Thomas clicks on a link at random and it brings him to a page full ofmoving pictures of Adam wearing a photoshopped flower crown. He is, in the words of **ASackler2012** on Tumblr, a total BAE. 

These are such strange times. 

Then there are photos of Adam from the BAFTAs taken from a variety of angles, some of them unflattering, most of them watermarked. Those that come in a set feature shots of Thomas as he’s following Adam down the red carpet, his head ducked or else he’s glancing at something just out of eyeline, showing off his double chin. His skin is looking terrible; he’s got a spot barely hidden by his fringe. Thomas exits out of the Just Jared before he loses any more of his good humour.

He hears Adam come in and scrambles out of bed to greet him but then he sees it’s just one of Adam’s assistants. Dan, Thomas thinks his name is. Something or the other. 

“I’m just here to pick up some stuff for the shoot,” he explains, looking around and picking up bags. 

“Is Adam going to be long?” Thomas can’t help but ask. He doesn’t want to seem desperate but Dan looks at him with something like confusion and pity. “It’s gonna be a long shoot. You should probably send him a text — oh! I forgot! Soomin takes his phone away when he’s on a job. Helps him concentrate. He gets easily distracted.”

Thomas scoffs, making a face. “What is he, a child?”

Dan shrugs. He stands there looking awkward for a few minutes longer before waving at Thomas with the hand still clutching the bag. Then he leaves for good.

Thomas checks his phone for messages: nothing from Adam. He gives it another hour then he grabs his coat and heads on home, telling Stensland to do the locking up himself. It’s almost time for closing. Thankfully, there are no photographers waiting for him outside his flat. Nothing of last night’s craziness: just his boring quiet little street with two of his neighbours walking their dogs.

Thomas smiles, seeing them. He is indeed the least interesting person in all of London. He makes a dinner of risotto and shrimp and eats it from a bowl, standing by the sofa and flipping through shows on Netflix, not really settling on anything. One of Adam’s movies has recently been added, the one where he travels through time trying to fix his mistakes, only to rewrite his own history and erase his present. Thomas laughs at all the right cues and rolls his eyes at the terrible French accent and he gasps when the plot twist is revealed, clutching his chest. 

Then he hears someone at the door. 

It’s late, he isn’t expecting visitors, so he grabs an umbrella from the foyer and holds it aloft like a weapon. It’s a relatively safe neighbourhood with hardly any crime at all but better safe than sorry, Thomas thinks, as his fingers tense around the handle of the umbrella. 

“Who’s there?”

No answer. Thomas waits another minute, then the knock sounds again, louder this time. He braces himself for a moment, then throws all caution to the wind and throws the door open. “Yargh!!!” There’s no one there. He almost skids trying to stop himself from pivoting forward and swinging his umbrella around like an axe. Then, just as he has started to relax, something moves in his periphery. Then again, heading straight for him. Adam steps out of the shadows and then into the light.

“Hey,” he says, sheepish.

Thomas, in the mean time, is too busy having a heart attack to respond properly. He drops the umbrella in shock.

“I thought you were a serial killer. Christ,” he says, once he’s caught his breath, leaning heavily against the doorframe.

Adam glances down at his clothes then back up again at Thomas. “I get that a lot.” Black hoodie and sunglasses, a baseball cap, black jeans; he looks like he’s trying to disappear or rob a car. Behind him, the street is empty. No limos, no entourage. It’s just him.

“Can I come in?” he asks.

“It’s late,” Thomas points out.

Adam just stares at him plaintively.

“Well, all right,” Thomas grouses. “I’ll make you some tea or something. Are you hungry?” He leads Adam to the living room where his own movie is on pause on the telly but Adam doesn’t seem to notice, or if he does, he makes no mention of it. “I don’t want any food,” Adam mumbles. “You left the hotel though,” he says, without preamble.

Thomas simply says, “Well, I wasn’t sure when you’d be back, so.” And yes, it’s a flimsy excuse but at that time it seemed logical. Waiting around for Adam seemed…desperate. And he didn’t have any more clean clothes. So he left.

“How was the photoshoot?”

Adam stuffs his hands inside the front pocket of his hoodie. “Boring. I got some new clothes though. Filmed at the Natural History Museum. That was nice.”

“How is this your life now,” Thomas muses out loud.

Adam raises his eyebrows at him, stopping in the act of inspecting Thomas’ wall art, a reproduction of Chagall’s. _La Mariée,_ the bride floating along a dark river while a goat plays violin beside her. “I don’t fucking know,” Adam says,shaking his head ruefully,“One morning I wake up and I’m in LA with more money than I know what to do with and I had an actual fucking entourage. But not like the entourage from HBO, those guys are assholes, just people who work for me that don’t necessarily to like me.”

“Oh, I’m sure they like you,” Thomas assures him. “People love you. You’re especially famous on the internet.”

“None of that is real,” Adam huffs. “Anyone can be famous on the internet. And sooner or later, people will forget about me and find a new person to obsess over, so it doesn’t matter. None of it matters. It’s all temporary so I try not to think about it.”

Thomas watches him; Adam stares back without blinking. “I’m sorry I made you wait,” Adam says eventually, clenching and unclenching his fists. He seats himself on the sofa without prompting; after a long moment, Thomas perches on the arm beside him and places a hand on his shoulder, rubs consolingly solely due to the fact Adam looks like he needs consoling. He recognises that shoulder hunch.

“I’m sorry I left,” Thomas says. 

Adam pulls him into his lap without answering; it’s strange how Thomas goes willingly, the action coming naturally to him as he loops his arms around Adam’s neck and seats himself atop his thighs. Adam’s hair brushes Thomas’ knuckles, his wrists, while his arms come around Thomas’ waist then grip his hips. Two weeks ago, he’d have never done something like this; two years ago he was still swatting Adam with a rolled up copy of _The Sun_ for being a general menace. Granted, he’d still do that now but this time it’ be with a lot less venom.

“Been waiting to kiss you all day,” Adam tells him with a sigh, tipping his face up and licking Thomas’ bottom lip softly. Thomas obliges him and kisses him back, parts his lips just a fraction to brush his tongue along the seam of Adam’s mouth. He’s a great kisser, varying pressure and speed, making Thomas feel wanted. Thomas feels like he can do this all day, just sit here in Adam’s lap kissing him like an earnest teenager while his lips get swollen and bruised and Adam continually paws at him, squeezing his hips, his arse, stroking his sides and back. He wonders if Adam can taste the shrimp and risotto in his breath.

“You’re just saying that to get me into bed,” Thomas jokes.

“Oh, you have no idea how much I’ve wanted to do that all day,” Adam grins. When he pulls back, he rubs their noises together, letting their foreheads touch before making a miserable noise and clenching his jaw. “You’re going to hate what I’m about to say.”

Thomas hates it already and Adam hasn’t even said anything. For some reason, he can already tell what it’ll be about. He pulls back from Adam’s hold and looks at him, properly looks at him.

“I have to be at Cannes tomorrow. It’s just a short trip but after that I’m going right back into filming in Wales.”

“I didn’t think there was anything that ever happened in Wales,” Thomas says, trying to lighten the mood. 

Adam just barrels on, “So I won’t get to see you as much.”

“Right.” Thomas doesn’t try to point out that he hasn’t seen Adam in well over a year; if he survived that, he can survive his absence as well as the next person. “So: nothing to be done about that then. It is what it is. Would you still like that cup of tea now?”

Thomas makes him some without waiting for an answer, making a beeline for the kitchen. Tea, he finds, is the British solution to everything, including the worst of ailments: the common cold, boredom, even heartbreak. He goes to hand Adam a mug of the good stuff when he finds him leaning against the doorway, watching him. Any other person and this would have made Thomas instantly wary and suspicious but he’s known Adam for a while now and knows he has a tendency to skulk around doorways like a complete creep. Instead of being thrown off by this kind of behaviour, now he just finds it oddly endearing. 

Adam ambles over him, taking the mug of tea from his hands and setting it down on the counter where it clinks resolutely, the loudest sound in the room apart rom Thomas’ heart beating double time. Then Adam goes to wind his arms around Thomas’ waist, lifting him a little from the floor so Thomas stumbles and has to stand on his tiptoes, holding onto him for balance and getting a faceful of sturdy chest for his efforts.

“You wanna go to bed?” Adam asks, shifting from foot to foot so Thomas sways along with him.

Thomas’ voice is muffled when he speaks, his face buried in Adam’s chest. He tastes cotton. “That depends what that implies. What do you have in mind?” He’s being cheeky but Adam smiles only crookedly, tipping up his chin and thumbing his lower lip. 

“We don’t have to fuck. I wanna save that for,” He swallows, suddenly frowning at a thought that seems to have just crossed his mind, “For when we have a little more time. Gotta be at Cannes tomorrow and my publicist will flay my arse if I’m not back at the hotel before my bedtime. She scares the fuck out of me, Thomas, she’s like the reverse of a fairy grandmother only she’s five foot two and can be very mean.”

Thomas makes the appropriately sympathetic noise. “You know, you keep building yourself up here that I’ve started to expect a whole song and dance,” he tells him later as Adam carries him without breaking stride, up the slight of stairs, and into the only bedroom which, because this is Thomas’ flat, is neat as anything. The bed is still perfectly made from his morning and Adam makes an appreciative noise as he kneels on the covers and seats Thomas on them. 

“It’s gonna be the greatest fuck of your life,” Adam promises. “You want a song and dance, I’ll give you the fucking circus.”

Thomas pretends to swoon. “Now, now, there’s no need to get the circus involved; you know I’m allergic to most animals.”

Adam laughs. Thomas scoots farther up the headboard so Adam can kneel between his spread legs. Adam reaches back, grabs his hoodie at the nape of the neck, and pulls it off over his head in one smooth movement. Then his shirt comes off too shortly after. It’s a bloody nice view and Thomas has to take a momentto himself before he can tear his gaze away and start breathing normally again. There’s a mirror hanging on the wall by the dresser; he watches the muscles on Adam’s back ripple when he moves. His body is built like a barge whereas Thomas’ own is the shoddy little raft that’s easily carried by the tide.

“Oh,” Thomas says, out loud. “Oh, are we gonna have sex? Is that what this is?”

“I just — I sleep with my clothes off,” Adam explains, “But if you want, we could do something. I could eat you out again or whatever. You seemed to really like that last time, you came like a rocket.”

Thomas blushes. He is thirty-four years old and owns his business and property and pays taxes like any respectable citizen — only Adam can say things so candidly and make him blush like a nun.

Speaking of, his hands have started wandering a bit, slipping down to feel up Thomas’ chest. Thomas lets him unbutton his pyjama top and slide his palms inside to cup Thomas’ chest, circle his thumbs around the nubs of his nipples so they stiffen into flushed little peaks. He’s panting and biting his lip by the end of it, grabbing Adam by the back of the neck to kiss him furiously in retaliation. He’s never played with his nipples before, and isn’t that just a shame, a total loss of thirty-four years when he could have enhanced his sexual experience. 

Thomas is just about as sexual as the next person, which is to say he has a wank every now and again, but he’s ill equipped for half of the things Adam starts doing to him. And they’re still half-clothed, barely touching below the waist.

All that is remedied in the next breath when Adam starts taking everything off including his underwear. He kicks it off his ankles, and Thomas notes that he no longer favours ratty briefs but proper designer ones without holes in the waistband and arse. He doesn’t know how to feel about that; maybe it says something about him that he feels nostalgia for Adam’s saggy briefs.

Adam nudges Thomas’ cheek with his nose, a silent gesture meaning, _well come on now, it’s your turn,_ and Thomas sits up, shucking off his pyjama bottoms with as much grace as he can and almost kicks Adam in the face in the process. When his boxers are off, embarrassingly damp from smears of precome, he leans back on his elbows so Adam can examine him and he can examine him in return. Everything is even better than he’s imagined, from his strong thighs, to his flat stomach, to the wiry dark hair covering his crotch, nothing short of a jungle. _Christ_. He really is something. Even his cock is intimidatingly large; in the event they decide to have penetrative sex, Thomas doesn’t think his arse can withstand the damage Adam’s cock seems capable of inflicting. If they aren’t careful, he’ll be paralysed for life. Or worse yet, dead. 

Adam wraps his hands around Thomas’ stick-thin biceps and Thomas has a flash of longing for them to wrap around his ankles too. To be honest, he’d settle for Adam’s hands anywhere on his person; they’re warm and massive, they seem to know what they’re doing.

“You know I’ve always wondered what you would look like naked,” Adam tells him, running an appreciative glance over the family jewels.

“Well.” Thomas huffs out a self-depreciating laugh. “There you go. Look away. There isn’t much but I’d say there’s still a bit you can work with. Maybe if you closed your eyes and imagined a model.”

“I think it’s hot,” Adam blurts out. “I mean, I think you’re hot. It’s fucking disgusting how attracted I am to you. I used to jerk off in the storage room whenever I was on break, thinking about bending you over every surface of the store.”

“Adam!” Thomas gasps, horrified. “Oh, Christ. Is that true?”

“I’m joking,” Adam laughs, only narrowly missing Thomas’ hands swatting half-heartedly at him. “But I would have done that if you weren’t such a slavedriver. But you were my boss, so. I didn’t try anything funny. I really needed the job, so I kept it in my pants.”

“Well I’m glad you did, because I run a children’s toyshop,” Thomas reminds him, jabbing him in the chest.

“Still made me want to fuck you anyway,” Adam says, tilting his head to the side, eyes softening into slits as a grin warps the dreamy look on his face. “Right there on the counter. For everyone to see.”

Thomas shakes his head. It’s a wonderful fantasy but it wouldn’t have been anything more than that; he would have been too terrified to try anything with Adam back then, he hadn’t even thought of him any way but professionally. And then he left and Thomas finally understood what people meant when they said no one ever felt someone’s presence any more than they did their absence. “You have such strange proclivities,” he tells Adam.

“So do you,” Adam reminds him. “I mean, you’re kind of in bed with me and that says a hell of a lot more about you thank you think.”

Thomas supposes this is true. Adam is a little bit of an acquired taste.

“Lie on your front.” Adam gives his arse a fond squeeze. His hand is so big that it encompasses the entire seat of Thomas’ arse, his fingers well into brushing his perineum. “Come on, and show me that cute little ass.”

“It’s really not much of an arse, bit flat like a pancake on one side—” Adam gives it another slap, and that one sends a bolt of arousal straight to Thomas’ dick that he probably needs to examine for later. 

“Hands and knees, I wanna take a good look at that arse, see if deserves to be eaten.”

Christ, Thomas thinks, feeling all the blood rush south to his cock. He rubs thoughtfully at the slight sting in his right arsecheek where Adam had swatted it, then begrudgingly assumes the position.

In the end, Adam makes good on his promise and has Thomas riding his tongue in record time, pushing against his face as Adam thrusts his tongue inside him, forcing him to spread open. Thomas is rolling his hips rhythmically, his mouth making noises all the while Adam eats him out and holds him in place so all Thomas can do is just lie there and take it. His toes curl; his hips writhe; his mouth opens and his teeth clench together with an audible click. 

There’s drops of precome on the bed sheets, and it’s going to be a pain to have to wash tomorrow. Adam licks the hang of Thomas’ balls lovingly and manages to push a slick finger inside him, meeting with hardly any resistance that his finger presses right up to the second knuckle. It’s good. Thick, _Christ_. Why is everything about him big? Where did he find the lube?

But it feels good, does the trick, rubs just underneath the itch that makes Thomas see stars and Thomas gurgles out a string of incoherent noises. Thomas breathes and clenches around it, pushing out more precome on the sheets. Then Adam adds a second finger and starts mouthing on Thomas’ hipbone. 

“Jesus, you’re tighter than I thought. You think you can take my dick?”

His dick — which is brushing the back of Thomas’ thigh whether in warning or reminder. Thomas lets out a sob.

Finally Adam jerks him off, with two fingers holding him open, and then he jerks himself until he spills hot and white all over Thomas’ heaving back. The bed dips when Adam collapses next to him and throws a heavy leg around him, then an arm. Thomas is sticky and knackered but also sated beyond belief, crushed comfortably under the warm weight of both of those strong limbs. He cranes his neck to glance at Adam, finding him with his eyes closed serenely. He has so much dark hair; it makes him look younger than he actually is.

“So much for not having sex,” Thomas says, breaking the stillness of the aftermath. 

Adam shakes his head and laughs. “Oh, babe, that’s not even half of what I plan to do to you,” he promises, before bending down to give Thomas’ arse cheek a formidable bite that’s sure to bruise tomorrow. Then he gives the left one a bite too, right where Thomas’ buttock meets his thigh, probably just so Thomas has something to think about in the next few days. He winces when Adam finally release that bit of skin and rubs an aimless circle around the mark no doubt already blooming that’s in the shape of his teeth.

Adam gives Thomas’ arse a final swat before sliding back to mould himself against Thomas’ back. Thomas wriggles around until he emerges victorious from the cradle of Adam’s right arm, bumping his arse against his crotch so he’d give him a little more breathing room.

“I could eat your arse all day, breakfast, lunch, and dinner,” Adam tells him, grinning at him with all teeth. Thomas likes the fact that he never got them fixed, that they’re the same crooked mess he remembers.

Thomas buries his face in a pillow and tells himself he’s not embarrassed, though he’s red up to his ears and all the way down to his neck. He’s an adult. A respectable one at that. Adam just had his tongue inside his arse, twice in a row now, so really, he needn’t at like a coy spinster when Adam talks about sex outside of having it. 

One day,” Thomas says, reaching behind him to pat Adam on the head. “One day I’ll hold you to that.”

After the requisite cleaning up and laying a bed sheet over the wet spot on the bed, Adam spoons him again and buries his face in Thomas’ neck. “Sorry my schedule is shit,” he says, his voice muffled. He sounds miserable, repentant, like a small child, whining. “I wish I didn’t have a shit ton of commitments.”

“It’s not your fault, Adam,” Thomas says, rubbing him on the arm soothingly. Adam doesn’t respond. Soon enough, sleep tugs him under and he’s snoring and wrapped around Thomas like the world’s most comfortable noose. 

Thomas yawns, forgoes closing all the lights because that’ll mean slipping momentarily out of Adam’s grip. He’ll be gone in the morning, leaving for Cannes; Thomas may as well just lie there and enjoy it while it lasts. All the good things are ephemeral. Now where has he read that?

Who knows when they’ll see each other again; who knows if this’ll be the last time, though Thomas knows he’s being especially maudlin. He can’t help it though: they live such different lives; Thomas has a shop to run, property taxes to pay, plants to keep from dying like hothouse orchids. Stensland to look after. Adam attends red carpet premieres, wears designer brands, and has pages and pages of search results about him on Google. Sooner or later, he’ll become even bigger, maybe even win an award of some sort. He deserves so much more. 

Well. Nothing to be done about it, Thomas thinks ruefully. Adam’s a celebrity now after all and he belongs to the people. His adoring masses; his madding crowd. He certainly doesn’t belong to Thomas.

*

_Caliban had him strapped to the table, aboard his stolen ship Diana, a zeppelin of one hundred rooms, run by mechanical men. Self-sustaining. Copacetic. The perfect ship. It had once belonged to a sugar baron until Caliban emancipated it from the man’s grubby little clutches._

_Thomas had climbed aboard while the ship had docked near port 44, taken over by curiosity, unable to ever resist an open door. He hadn’t meant to get caught, only to have a quick look around, but here he was now, restrained, ropes burning welts into his skin as he struggled to loosen their hold. He’d heard the stories that surrounded the man, part fact, part myth, he was sure._

_Perhaps, deep down, Thomas was hoping to get caught. Perhaps… Thomas looked up at the sound of boots thudding the floor. Thief, traitor, scoundrel, these were some of the names they called Caliban, and here he was, looking at Thomas now, and despite the inhuman eye, so dangerously magnetic._

_And he was about to end Thomas’ life._

_Caliban held a pistol, pressing the barrel against Thomas’ stomach. His smile was sweet like poison. His velvety lips touched the back of Thomas’ ear as he leaned down. He smelled of woodsmoke, of leather and whiskey. He wore an awful amount of black._

_“Any last words?” asked Caliban, voice low and smooth, like a panther’s, an appropriate comparison given the AI’s favourite color._

_“Good god,” said Thomas._

 

**Author's Note:**

> Notting Hill AU. I've wanted to write this for the longest time and have been struggling to finish it to take part in Kylux Adjacent Month. I've already written part 2 and am currently writing the third part. The plan is the post it every Sunday night (EST) in the next 2-3 weeks! More tags will be added, and I will collate all film and miscellaneous references on massive END NOTE by the last chapter. (The title is a NH reference -- a line in the movie. Thanks Richard Curtis!)
> 
> I wanted to deviate a little from the film. So: here is my attempt. Happy KA Month everyone!
> 
> Enjoy!
> 
> Also: this takes place after the events of PR 1 where Thomas now runs a little shop of his own. Many thanks to the light of my life ♥ [StaticRaining](https://twitter.com/StaticRaining) without whom this fic would not be possible. Thank you for always cheering me on and scooping me from the dirt and into a bucket of creative juice. Love you lots!


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